


Between The Points Ficlets

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Series: Just The Motion [3]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Shameless (US), The Fast and the Furious (2001)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Gap Filler, Gun Violence, Happy times, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Missing Scene, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Slow Burn, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets in the Just The Motion verse. </p><p>1. How Mia learned about D/B at the barbecue (Chapter 5). Humor</p><p>2. Gisele plans and Dom and Vince react. Humor</p><p>3. Tej is the smart one, so he has a few questions only his siblings can answer.</p><p>4. Leon and Sophie get closer and chillax with deep thoughts. (Post chapter 12)</p><p>5. Carter's in pursuit of what he once had.  (Set mostly in chapter 12)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Sisters

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.
> 
> A/N 1: I have five oneshots that occur in the Just The Motion verse. Three are missing scenes set during Between The Points and the other two are pre and post-Between The Points. These will be scenes that didn’t fit in the fic, though they provide good exposition of the plot. 
> 
> So, enjoy!

Mia’s Pop always told her she could be anything she wanted to be. It was an idea that was a persistent hum in her mind as she leapfrogged across grades and got into college. It was what she told herself when sitting behind the counter at the market multitasking as a waitress, a business woman, and a full-time student. The same thing she said when sitting behind her wheel and savoring the rabbiting of her pulse as she waited for the flag to drop so that she could let go.

A warm feeling spread through her chest which she wanted to ascribe to watching her brother carry Twink like a grenade missing the pin. He was miles from smooth as he and Brian walked across the short stretch of grass to enter the kitchen. She still remembered Dom carrying her when she was little, mostly slinging her up on his back or his shoulders for a better view of the action, he said.

But when she tried to pinpoint that warm feeling, she had to admit that it really wasn’t directed at him or Brian. Definitely not at that oh, so good looking man carrying his littlest of little brothers like it was the easiest thing in the world. The fount of this warmth came from sitting with Suki, a girl she barely knew but already envied.

“The twins will be okay,” Mia assured Suki, who watched after her brothers—little and big with Code Red awareness. “Dom’ll probably take them upstairs where it’s quiet.”

The girl continued to watch until they were completely out of sight. “I know,” Suki answered. “But we all have our habits, right? It’s just weird to not be one of the youngest anymore. I’ve got _little littles_ now and I feel like I have to watch ‘em or like they _need me_ to watch ‘em.”

Mia remembered Tej’s introduction of the siblings and how Suki, with the twins’ addition, was the new center of the age curve.

Mia crossed her arms over the table top, enjoying the warm scratch of the wood under her skin. Memories of sitting on her Pop’s lap while she read her books aloud, him bursting with pride over her who was still barely tall enough to see over the edge of the table, came flooding back. He wanted people to know that she was smart. That she had the potential to do or be anything she wanted. Except one thing, she realized now.

Her smile was open and easy. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.”

Despite what her Pop had said, there was only one thing that Mia would never be: a big sister. Mia was Dom’s little sister, by proxy also Letty and Leon’s, and before she became fully legal and a college woman, Vince’s little sister, too. The transition to being viewed as something else by him was weird in itself.

Mia watched her brother and Brian go into the garage and she wasn’t alone in watching either. The garage was a place that was just Dom’s and very rarely for his friends. Just another reason why Brian was off limits. A man that could enter the Beast’s den wasn’t meant for Mia Bella.

But this man who she’d jokingly warned was already caught up in her brother’s gravity hadn’t blinked when she said _he owns you now_. Anyone else would’ve been afraid of her frankness but Brian had just given her an assessing look and rolled with her pronouncement. A point in his favor. She had liked his cool. Thought it was needed to temper the heat in the house.

Suki kept her eyes on the garage though, still curious about the boys’ secret parley.

“So you were telling me about your art?” Trying to shift them back to talking about themselves and not thinking about their big brothers.

Suki grinned at her like the cat that ate the canary, head already canting to reenter their conversation, leaving big brothers out of sight and out of mind.

Then Suki leaned across the old table, beaming at her. “I’ll tell you about my art if you tell me about college?”

“Deal.” That warm feeling didn’t seem so bad now.

* * *

Eventually Mia learned that Suki’s thing for art included drawing, design, fashion, and possessed all-around talent in each, and had been lobbying Brian to make the final design for his car. Her argument based on not letting his car look like Rome’s. Mia remembered when she had to convince Dom to let her do things. Now he trusted her advice and listened, mostly.

They had already stripped most of the table and were double-teaming Jesse to keep him out of the kitchen. Jesse had a habit of picking at leftovers like a buzzing fly, landing on anything uncovered and snatching pieces away until he was so full he couldn’t stay awake. After securing the kitchen, they headed outside with garbage bags to tackle the rest when they encountered Dom and Brian back from the garage.

Knowing her brother as she did, Mia noticed a difference almost immediately. Something she couldn’t put her finger on but a change that didn’t set her on edge. He looked relaxed when he swapped garbage bags for the last trays with her. Comfortable in a way that she hadn’t seen him in such a long time that its current return gave her pause.

Suki’s exchange with Brian earned her a gentle shove back to the kitchen where she retaliated by smarting off from a distance.

Inside, she did as Brian asked and with Mia’s guidance filled the sink with hot soapy water. “My brother is a world class dishwasher but a terrible cook.” Suki said as she slid two trays off the crowded counter into the sink. “Be happy that yours can cook. Most of mine just eat.”

Brian came through the backdoor. “Hey, Suk, y’know I can hear you, right? Just remember that the next time I cook, it’s nothing but the edges for you.”

“Burnt edges,” she murmured under her breath then caught Mia’s eye who barely contained her snicker, imagining Suki’s suffering.

Mia told Letty that she could look at Brian all she liked without crossing a line. Having him in her kitchen, soon to be arms deep in sudsy water was the perfect opportunity. “I think we’ve got it, Suki. Maybe you wanna try kicking some butt in there?” As the living room erupted in cheers, volume dropping after Vince’s order.

“Naw, I don’t wanna play. But I think I’ll just watch Giselle kick butt for both of us.” She walked through the door as Vince came out of the living room. He took a brief silent inspection of the scene and continued on without additional commentary. If not for the sun still shining, Mia would have looked for a blue moon.

Brian waited by the sink, not at all impatient, simply relaxed until instructions were given.

Mia grabbed a dish towel and moved to stand in front of the dish rack. “Since you offered, Prince of Dishes, I’ll dry and you wash.”

Her warmth shifted elsewhere when he smiled at her. “Cool with me.” Then he got to work soaping and scrubbing the dishes.

Up close, Mia started thinking about Suki’s artistic talent and how she envied that ability. Granted, Mia was smart; smart didn’t necessarily mean that she had the skills to describe what she saw in Brian’s profile. She didn’t have the skills to draw what she saw either, because taking a picture, though it would last longer, was not an option. Not yet.

She said to him. “I hear you’re a world class dishwasher. Is there a title and a belt to go with that honor?” Mia began to dry a plate that Brian handed her.

“There’re no championships required to get this good. Just keep practicing and you’ll never lose.” Brian’s remark sounded so much like Dom that Mia had to laugh.

“Well, I’m gonna assume that dish washing and driving fast aren’t your only skills. You handle your brothers so well. Super adorable, by the way. I wouldn’t be shocked if you had other talents.”

“Thanks, and yeah, I have other skills.”

They were moving through the dirty stack quickly. Mia took a quick sweep of the kitchen and the living room to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

Finding them completely alone, she leaned close to Brian and pitched her voice low. “My brother was scared shitless holding Twink, right? You can tell me and I’ll laugh now and then I’ll be really nice to him later. I promise.”

Brian handed her a dripping circular tray. “Not the worst, certainly not the best. He was totally buggin’ about them falling off his bed. So I asked him if he had monsters under the bed. I think he wanted to whop me for that one. Still not that bad. To be so little, they can be freakin’ scary.” Still devastatingly cute though.

Mia took a short stack of plates and moved behind Brian to put them away in the cabinet to his right. After a brief clicking of the plates into place, she snuck a peek at him and nearly lost her grip on the last plate. Why? Because Brian had a small bruise on his neck, though definitely his business, with a placement and shape that Mia knew too well.

That sneaky _pendejo_ , her Mano.

That night at the race her brother warned her off Brian saying he was involved in something _complicated_. That his situation made him easily off-limits. Yeah, sure. Mia had multiple reasons to be shocked. The lowest being that Brian’s _complication_ was a man. The highest reason being that said _complication_ was her brother.

So she could be sneaky, too. Not mean sneaky. More subtle and probing like a literary detective.

Mia returned to her previous position, patiently waiting for Brian to pass her a tray. “I imagine you’re really busy with your family and work, probably don’t have much time to date, right?”

“No, not often.” He shrugged. “But things are changing.”

“Yeah?”

Brian nodded. “Yeah, slowly for now.”

Mia knew how to be tread carefully. Patience, she had naturally, and always used to counter her brother’s stubbornness. Brian hadn’t done anything to her, though there was a part of her that wanted to needle him. Just poke and prod at him until she understood how he’d been complicit in helping her brother hide this change. A smaller part—an angrier part wanted to know why he could change her brother this way.

But she stopped herself.

Letty was right: Dom was different. Had become better, so she owed it to him to be supportive.

She loved her brother, would always want the best for him, even when he couldn’t see what was best for himself. She’d be his support. His guide. Get him where he needed to be. The best way to have his back was to make sure that the new person watching it was worthy of the job.

Mia looked to Brian again, keeping her grin soft and innocent, she began, “Since I get the feeling that you’ll definitely be sticking around, I think we should get to know each other, don’t you? So let’s play a little game.”

“Sure.” He gave her a dripping pot.

“Let’s see how many questions you can answer in 30 seconds and then you can do the same with me.” A test she’d learned in her Psych 101 class in the fall.

“Okay, hit me.”

“Alright, what’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Where are you originally from?”

“Barstow.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Favorite car?”

“GT-R, of course.”

“Been outta the country?”

“Just once to TJ.”

“Have you ever had Cuban food?”

“Once and it was good.”

“Is my brother a good kisser?”

“Very good— _oh, shit_.” Brian ducked his head and exhaled, his cheeks growing pink to match his lips. “I’m not sure you were supposed to know.”

Mia offered Brian comforting brush on the arm. “Probably not. Dom’s my big brother and it’s still cute that he thinks he can keep things from me. He’s really like the first book I ever read, so I know him chapter and verse. I can keep pretending until he’s ready to say something, just to make him feel better. I’m sure he’s still figuring things out.”

Brian looked at her in a new light. His estimation of her having grown to a height of awed respect. “How’d you guess?”

She circled her finger around his mouth and pointed at his neck. “I know my brother’s mark.” Letty had complained about it enough that Mia offered to help her cover it up when she’d point to it.

“Did I pass the interrogation?” He gave her the last pot in the sink then opened the drain.

Mia handed him a dish towel to dry his hands while considering Brian’s personal specs: family man, cute brothers, liked cars, and was hot. “I think so.”

When he handed her back the towel, she grasped it but didn’t take it from him fully. “I’m not as strong as my brother but trust me, I’m way more creative. So just understand, if you break his heart… you can ad lib whatever you’d like for the rest. Just know that I’ll be coming for you.”

Mia had heard Dom tell her prom date that he’d break his neck if he broke her heart. The feelings between her and her date hadn’t been deep at all, but she appreciated the sentiment now. Back then, she certainly hadn’t.

“Message received, Mia.”

“Great, Brian. See, we’re already getting along so well. If we can keep this between us, then I’ll like you even more.”

She’d never be a big sister, would always be the little. But little didn’t mean she couldn’t have her big brother’s back.


	2. Always Be Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gisele plans while Dom and Vince react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before Chapter 10.

Giselle didn’t recall much about her mother. She vaguely remembered the woman’s face and her tall, lean figure. What Giselle remembered most was her mother’s accent, so different from ones that she heard in the neighborhood and at school. A lilting sound that curled around hard consonants like desert vines and purred across sharp vowels; a way of speaking that her words still hadn’t lost.

But she also remembered her mother saying this, “We protect the ones we love. We protect the ones who protect others. We protect the ones who can’t protect themselves.”

So this was her mission. Well, not just hers. But _theirs_.

She looked down at her pair of partners in crime for the day and asked them the only question that mattered before their mission started: “Carrots or sweet potatoes?”

If anyone doubted that Twink and Tank were far more advanced than their nearly half dozen months in age, then they would not have seen the pair share impish glances and turn twin peals of cooing baby laughter on the recipient of their attention. They rewarded Giselle with two pairs of reaching hands that wanted the brightest colored option.

“This is very important--” Giselle started, “just the three of us doing this one. We’re doing something that must be done, so I need to know if you’re with me?”

Of course, the boys understood their big sister’s questions by moving as one and chortling excitedly for the option in her right hand. When she got the answers she was looking for, Giselle smiled down at them. “Good, Boys, now let’s go have some fun.”

Giselle knew how to be the little sister; now she was learning how to be the big sister. Sometimes being the Big meant protecting the ones above and below her. She’d teach the little ones just how they could do that when the time was right.

From outside came two sharp blasts of a car horn.

Giselle tapped each twin on the nose before hefting the car seats off the ground and moving towards the door. “Alright, boys, our ride is here.”

Their response: a murmuring, stream of happy babble that she understood to mean, _let’s ride_.

* * *

When left alone, Dom and Vince usually got work done. Key word: _usually_. Not always and definitely not now.

With the garage deserted, except for the pair of them and Jesse’s last haul from a scrapyard in Pasadena, a sudden stroke of ambition hit them and started them down a course of retrofitting the headlights on an ’84 Pontiac Firebird with bi-xenon projectors for that ultra-bright quasi-Star Trek feel, while just looking at the trunk got them reconsidering Jesse’s mad scientist hypothesis of loading a supercharger in the back.

But all that focus lasted thirty-five—no, forty-five minutes tops, or basically until Dom brought up Vince’s mom’s old Pontiac that was as fast as an old kickboard when coasting and far less sturdy. Like a good son, Vince rose to the defense of his mom’s less than epic ride.

Vince argued twice as vehemently with half a liter’s worth of sugary soda in his gut. “Hey, that _Hope-String_ car got me laid in high school more times than you can count.”

Dom walked towards the office, calling over his shoulder as he playfully knocked against a roll-away tool rack, “Pity lays don’t count.”

“They do to me!” Vince shot back. He dropped his bottle of soda on the same rack that Dom had pushed aside, despite Toretto Sr., Dom, and Letty telling him not to for years and years on end. A habit that was as old as time and always offering hilarious payback when Leon, Jesse, and, one time, Mia swapped out his soda for various items, such as dish soap, lime juice, and hot sauce. Still the Old Coyote hadn’t been deterred.

The insults continued flying as Dom turned on the knob to the A.C. wall unit in the office. “And you know we called it the _Hope-String_ car, cuz it took a _hope_ and all the _string_ in the world to keep the doors closed just so that piercer could get around the block.”

Vince hovered by the door, his thick and tattooed arms knotted across his open DT’s work shirt, and waited for the old A.C. to rumble as it woke from a long slumber. Daring not to go any further inside since the office temp was set around what felt like one thousand degrees at that very moment. “You weren’t complainin’ when we were double dating the Lopez twins. That _Hope-String_ car had the best backseat that either of us has ever seen.”

That Dom couldn’t refute. “Got me there.” The nights they spent in that car testing out the endurance of the old leather seats was the stuff that late adolescent dreams were made of and twenty-something nostalgia was built on. Whether it was a date on the books or a night where either had to test out those MacGyver super skills to not step on the creaky step or lift a window too loudly, they put that car through hell and always got it back to Vince’s mom’s place before the sun came up. There were a few hits and misses, a few scraped knees along the way, and one time with a stray cat that wouldn’t get out the back until Vince started crooning like a Billy Goat in heat.

“Good times.” Dom sat behind the big sturdy desk that was probably older than he was and had always seemed bigger than him, much like his Pop had always seemed to be, and reclined until he felt the chair lock up with a worn notch in the wall; a spot that had been caused after a failure to heed that _no running in the office_ rule when he was seven.

Dom was also thinking about how somethings hadn’t changed, which of course, Vince psychically picked up on due to proximity, familiarity, the Force, or whatever. “Not that I really wanna think about it, but it seems you been going to the oldie goldies for getting action lately.” Vince made an attempt at sounding casual that slightly missed the mark.

Anyone else might have blushed, not Dom though, and definitely not after Vince walked in on a brief exploration of how roomy the GTR’s backbench could be. “What can I say? Somethings are standards for a reason.”

Vince spun his head from corner to corner like a dog shaking off fleas or traumatic memories in his case. “Next time, remember another standard: lock the door or put up a sign. We got impressionable minds around here.”

“Like, whose?” Dom asked, amused by Vince’s attempt to be civil. His best friend was really trying these days. Had only slipped up once, maybe, twice or so with the nicknames which were escalating in hilariousness but never around Brian or any of the other members of Team O’Conner. “Not that it’s gone down like that, but the twins don’t know what they’re seeing.” Because Dom had asked a reliable source—re: Google.

The eye roll Vince gave him would have impressed Letty with its saltiness and literal _oh, boy_ that one arc of the eyes carried. “I ain’t talkin’ about the twins. I’m talkin’ about _me_. My eyes. My brain. And the fact that you and the Boy Wonder goin’ _bam, bang, boom_ , aren’t on the list of things that I need or want to see.”

Just to screw with Vince, Dom pushed his buttons by suggesting that he was doing that Shakespeare thing too much. “You sure you didn’t take a peak? Seems like you have all the deets well remembered.”

Vince stuck out his tongue like a five year old and pulled a sour face, then turned his head towards the sound of a modded engine approaching. Vince popped his head inside of Dom’s office again and smirked smugly, “Yo, Boy Toy’s here. Must have felt you thinkin’ about him.” He completed a complicated one-two combo of waggling his eyebrows suggestively and pursing his lips together in mild distaste. A worthy effort that would earn him a passing score for intricacy.

Dom had a headache that had just started brewing. “Swear to God, V, you won’t have to wait for the Bri’s brothers and sisters to hear you--”

“Oh shit!” Vince's mouth might have dropped open just then. 

Unfortunately, Dom wasn’t able to finish his threat, because in the next couple of seconds Vince was hugging the door frame from inside the office and peaking around the corner like life or death had just appeared at the garage’s counter.

Now Dom was concerned. “We got a problem?”

“You bet your ass we do.” Vince pointed towards the open bay where there was an O’Conner who certainly wasn’t Brian. Instead, he found Giselle who was deftly disengaging the twins' car seats from the seatbelts in the back of a mostly unseen car. He looked for Brian and came up empty. “Looks like Baby Xena Warrior Princess and two of Bo Peep’s sheep just landed on our doorstep.” Vince said after dropping out of sight again.

The look Dom tossed at Vince was one of genuine worry. “You know that’s messed up that I don’t need to look out there to know just who you’re talking about. I never thought I’d be fully fluent in _Vince_ but the day has finally come.” This was definitely a milestone. In fact, he’d be smart to just go ahead and get a cake, because that would make Vince happy and keep his mouth busy for a while. 

Vince’s solitary finger salute made Dom crack a broad grin. Vince shook his head lowly with disapproval while still hugging the edge of the door. “Why is she here? Isn’t there someone else higher on the ladder available to make her milk and cookies or some shit? Like, why is she bringing Double Trouble with her.”

“I thought you weren’t scared of her?” Vince kept peeping around the edge of the door like he expected the Feds to raid the place. “V, she’s just a kid.” One with a lucrative side hustle but a kid nonetheless.

“That’s what people said about Damien and look how that turned out.”

“Imma tell her you said that.” Dom snickered at Vince’s sudden look of absolute horror.

Vince shook his head with his mouth buttoned tightly, radiating maximum disappointment. “Harsh, bro.”

The way Vince bobbed his head to multiple angles trying to get a better look at the situation headed towards them reminded Dom about Jesse’s observation that Vince might need glasses. That comment had earned their little bud a nuggie hard enough to start a premature bald spot.

The hairy eyeball Vince gave Dom was one for the record books. Permanent blackmail material and they both knew it. “You can’t tell me that you don’t imagine Baby Sister Barbie sneaking up on you saying some crazy Children of The Corn type shit. Like, she’d be the type to hover over you while you sleep and as soon as your eyes pop open, she’d whisper something like _shun the nonbeliever…outlander_ nonsense.”

Needing to stop Vince from continuing, Dom held up a calming hand.  “V, I think you need to join Leon on one of his little breaks where he mellows out, cuz you are totally wigging out over a preteen…A kinda scary preteen but a middle school kid, V.”

Dom left Vince in the doorway to watch Giselle stride into the garage with a twin in each hand and the ubiquitous baby backpack slung around her like bandoleer ready for war. What he didn’t see was Brian or Brian-shaped persons following behind her. Dom had gotten used to the sight of Brian climbing out of the _Ro Machine_ , Harry’s pick-up, or any sort of vehicle that he could bum a ride off of.

This might have been the first time Giselle had popped over unaccompanied by Brian or Suki. Usually when she came around, she was coolly attached at the hip to Letty with breaks in between to tease her brother and test out new ways to sneak up on Vince; the latter was endlessly amusing.

Dom caught the narrowing of Vince’s eyes from the corner of his. When he looked back at Giselle, he noticed that the teen’s smile was large; a perfect replica of her brother’s signature grin, and so pearly it was school picture day worthy.

Digging an elbow into Vince’s side, he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

The slit of Vince’s eyes dropped a few more millimeters. “Can’t show fear, Dom. She can smell it.”

“She’s thirteen, not a shark, V.”

Vince scoffed. “That’s what girlie would like you to believe.”

Not willing to fall down the same mine shaft of nonsense as his best friend, Dom stepped up to take the twins from Giselle who’d done a good job of flexing her little bit of muscle. “Sup, Giselle. Wasn’t expecting you to drop in today or else Let woulda probably stuck around.”

She turned down the wattage of her grin when she turned her attention to Dom. “That’s okay. This is more of a surprise really. I was actually hoping _you’d_ be here.”

Dom spared a slight look at Vince whose eyes were so low he almost looked like he was sleeping on his feet. “Me?” Giselle nodded at him. “Sure, what do you need?” Dom asked her.

“I have a school project.”

Vince crossed his arms over his chest. “School’s out. Try again.”

Giselle wielded that little grin like a tiny dagger. Her eyes unblinking as she said, “My project’s on-going, actually. It’s about my bike and I need some help finishing it.” She paused. “You wouldn’t want to stop a kid from learning.” Her mouth started to turn down at the corners and her big brown eyes grew shiny.

Maybe, Vince was right about Gisele being a little Amazonian mastermind in the making. Because she’d found his kryptonite. The shinier her eyes became, almost rattling like new glass up against too much bass, the more his resolve crumbled to call her on anything related to this on-going project.

Vince looked to him imploringly, knowing that defeat was on the horizon. He’d been witness to Mia doing the same thing to Dom—the jury was still out on whether she used the big eyes and tears thing intentionally or not. Whether the purpose was good or evil, it was certainly a superpower.

“V—” Dom warned in a long drawl of his name. Instinct told him to defend, especially in the face of Vince metaphorically rising up like Godzilla against the little sister in the room. The fact that she was Brian’s little sister didn’t matter.

“What, I did not…I’m not…You can’t...” He stopped, now soundly defeated. Then Vince threw his arms up and retreated into Dom’s office at speed best reserved for dodging the cops or bitter exes carrying sharp objects.

Now Giselle turned to him. “So, you’ll watch Twink and Tank, yes?”

“Um, sure.” Dom found himself agreeing as the tears remained.

Somewhere in the expanse of a single minute, she had reconstructed the baby jail, set up Twink and Twank comfortably, disassembled the baby bug out bag, and was waving goodbye to Dom and Vince who were somehow both carrying a stuffed car apiece between their big hands and waving back slowly as if spellbound.

“I told you.” Vince hissed under his breath. “That girl’s got, like, black magic. Sailor Moon powers or something.” He oriented the plushie between his hands until he was once again staring at the stitched on smile on the little red Corvette. “She’ll owe us more than a couple of juice boxes if we’ve gotta babysit now.”

“I can still hear you,” Giselle said from the mouth of the garage. “I’ll be back in an hour once my project is done.”

“See you then.” Dom answered after a beat.

When the girl disappeared from the sidewalk, Dom turned to Vince who looked only slightly less shell-shocked than he felt, now that the reality of what he’d agreed to hit him squarely in the chest just as Tank’s rattle did at that very second.

Vince shook his head once before taking a steadying breath. He palmed the plushie like a basketball between his hands, then turned to Dom. “This smells just like a setup.” He eyed the twins and waited his turn to be nailed by a noisemaking projectile.

Dom picked up the rattle, pocketing it until he could wash it off. “I’m right there with you.” There had always been someone else around when the twins were over, usually Brian, Mia, and Jesse, who had more experience and smaller hands to handle the two, leaving Dom responsible for carrying seats, possibly lifting, and sometimes playing low speed games of keep away.

This was new territory and Giselle had just thrown out the map.

Dom started to hand the blue plushie Thunderbird to Tank when the kid realized that the rattle would not be offered up in the exchange. Dom watched the kid watch him, take a deep breath, pause, adjust his focus on Dom, fling an arm out to smack his quietly chilling out brother, and then let loose the dogs of war in one long angry baby cry.

Forget throwing out the map, Giselle had just cut the brakes on them.  

Vince dove in first to get the slightly quieter twin who accepted the red plushie though his hurt feelings were completely uneased. “We’re gonna lose this,” Vince growled as he bounced the kid gently in his arms, instead of furiously like a can of paint.

Moving in fast, Dom scooped up Tank who was transitioning from pink to middle red with fat tears coming down his face. “No, we won’t…” He stopped and sniffed. Growing horror spread across Vince’s face. “I don’t think it’s that bad.” Then the smell got worse.

“Told you this was a setup. She probably gave them radioactive carrots or Brussel sprouts, Dom. It’s gonna be apocalypse bad all over this place.”

Dom had always taken a step back when this came up. Sometimes, opting to pass Brian various items that Brian used with the efficiency of a surgeon under the gun but was never directly involved. Always hands off. Way off. Brian said it was like stripping a gunky engine. “It’s like cleaning an engine Brian said…The stinkiest, angriest engine you can imagine, but we can do it. We held _Hope-String_ together after some nasty filter changes, we can do this.”

Instead of calming, Twink’s crying kicked up a harder edge. “But the car never pissed on us when we messed up.” Vince took a tentative whiff of Twink and immediately held the kid away from his body. “This one’s detonated too…and oh, God, that’s freakin’ awful.”

“Then we can’t mess up,” Dom’s voice carried loud and freaked as Vince started steering the kid towards the big desk, “Not on the desk, not on the desk!”

They were maneuvering tiny bodies away from noses and closer to the old sofa in the office but the smell and the crying grew worse. “How can one little body do that?!” Vince growled. “What the hell is Blondie feeding them? Super-charged veggies? Cuz this shit is straight up lethal.”

“V, we’ve got this, so calm down. Remember, you’re the Baby Whisperer.”

“To the regular kind, Dom. This is straight up demonic. Just ain’t right or left…”

Dom took a breath. He could do this. “Hand me those wipes, man. I’m goin’ in…”

* * *

From a couple of blocks away, Giselle turned to her fourth partner in crime. “Your poor brother. You are very cruel.” Her statement was admiring rather than condemning.

Mia sipped her soda coolly, enjoying the start of her afternoon out with Gisele. “He’s gotta learn some time. In science, we call this exposure therapy—expose him to the scary thing and he’ll get over it eventually.”

Gisele broke off a corner on an empanada that Mia had brought her from the market. “That tear thing worked. It was like watching water fall on a sandcastle; he just crumbled.” She continued chewing the sweet crunchy bread.

Mia shrugged and offered an apologetic grin. “I know. It took years to get it right. I don’t know if it’ll work on Brian.”

Giselle shook her head. “Suki and I have other ways with him. Tears stopped working a long time ago. Rome can’t do tears, though, so I’ll try this one on him and he’ll give me piggyback rides and his fries for the rest of the summer.” Which was funny to imagine as she was already a good inch taller than Rome and probably would have more by the end of the summer.

“Sounds like a plan.” Mia said.

“An amazing one.” Agreed Gisele.

Who said protecting the older ones couldn’t be fun.


	3. Breakfast: The Most Important Meal for Fact Checking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tej is the smart one, except when he's been left out of the loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before Chapter 9. Reference unseen characters.

Sometimes being in college sucked. Tej’s list of reasons why could fill pages in twelve-point font, double-spaced with alphabetized sections, written with such detail that he would probably earn credit towards his honor thesis. Yeah, it took a special sort to enjoy the masochistic all-night study benders, tons of homework, endless papers about things that would never cross his lips again after getting his degree. These days, it seemed that he was always doomed to be covered in stray pen or highlighter markers, and learning to subsist on coffee, pizza, and a constellation of energy drinks.

But if anyone asked what he hated most about college: it was that Tej felt left out. Granted, he still lived at home; he was hardly ever there— sometimes he slept there, showered, possibly grabbed a snack…sometimes, and rose each morning to do it again. So all the news—the twins moving up to the big leagues of soft foods, G finishing her bike build, and Brian’s new boo—were learned second hand, and when it came to information, Tej learned that only primary sources were acceptable. Blame Modern Lit 202 for that sticking point.

Getting information straight from the source was the reason why Tej decided to start his only off day, meaning no school and no shift at Hobbs’s gym, with a trip to the Dock East Diner to have breakfast with his two primary sources of information, Rome and Suki. Paired together, they were a perfect news source: Rome supplied quantity and Suki assured quality. Like peanut butter and jelly, once united, the results were amazing, apart only tolerable and quickly became messy.

Tej was on cup number three of the diner’s jet fuel strong coffee since Flo had made her rounds and topped him off. Three cups in and there were still two empty seats in front of him with two menus untouched.

“Eight o’clock.” Suki had said when they’d planned to meet. “I’ll do my best with Rome.” She’d promised, knowing that it might be a hard one to keep.

According to the swishing tail on the Felix clock, they were pushing into mid-morning territory and Suki’s promise was being stretched to its limit. But Tej had been on time and tried to continue to wait patiently. This situation demonstrated one of those fundamental differences between Tej and his brothers. Rome might have been fast behind a wheel of a car but he was almost always late, while Tej knew how to stick to deadlines and be reliable, he drove more reasonably and got teased for being the slow turtle in the family. Whereas Brian tended to be the perfect intersection between them—fast, reliable, and capable of faking an enthusiasm for mornings if it meant being on time.

Flo did one final swing around, carrying her half-full coffee carafe like a Spartan shield, sitting steady in her hands and angled towards directed use. “You want another Ulcer Maker, Einstein?” She said then cracked him one of her ecliptic smiles that was reserved for only her most favorite of regulars. The nickname earned after hearing a staggering amount of bragging from his brothers after late night shifts and serving the entire motley outfit when there was enough cash.

Before college, he had only grudgingly accepted his role in their family. Einstein. Brainiac. Mr. Egghead. All names courtesy of Mr. Five-Forehead himself, Rome.

But college was where he learned to embrace that responsibility. In the movies, nerds were dateless with bad skin and awful steez. In real life, nerds made companies, earned bank, and had all the girls loving them. Right now, because he was mostly a broke college student, his life was a mixture of Column A and Column B but definitely moving towards Column B if he mostly followed Brian’s advice and simply did what he did best: calculate and build.

He used to think of himself as the devastatingly handsome one which was false, because that was Brian.

Then as the funny one who definitely Rome.

Then the adventurous one who was certainly Gisele.

The one with style who was actually Suki.

Now, he’d accepted his role as the smart one which was totally fine. He got to be the observer, the one who called out cause and effect, and had to be the unpopular voice of reason, making the reason for this breakfast all the more important.

Tej played with the wrapper from his straw, folding it between his fingertips until it sprang upwards and unfolded like an accordion. “Naw, thanks, I’m good.” Tej directed his grimace towards the empty bench across from him. “I’m still waiting for Team Rocket to crawl out of bed to meet me here.”

The corner of Flo’s mouth twitched once, wavered as if attempting a false start, then bloomed into a full grin that chipped away some of the mystery of the waitress’s secret origins. Like so many natives and sojourners to the City of Angels, the brutal stats of the industry had converted another would-be model-actress into a lifetime waitress.

Flo was a quiet lady, tall and lean, and probably the only woman in a ten mile radius willingly sporting a 1962 Aquanet beehive up do. “Honey, make sure one of the big ones pays, cuz time never gives you back change.” She delivered her greasy spoon philosophy that Tej expected had come from years of hard hustling and cool resignation. This was a freebie he could easily savor without threat of having to share. “Just let me know when you’re ready to fire up the grill.” Flo soundlessly strode back to her post behind the counter to turn the radio up and Tej went back to watching cat’s tail swing.

Five more minutes, Tej told himself. Five more minutes before he’d head back home, give the two hell and crash until the early afternoon. But he really didn’t want to do that. He wanted to discuss a certain issue and/or person. He had _concerns_. Blame it on not being around for a good minute and suddenly being treated to backyard barbecues, home cooking not cooked at home, and rolling up just as someone seemed to be rolling out that made him curious, if not, a little nervous.

He’d wait five minutes more because those chocolate chip pancakes were calling his name and he didn’t want Rome to do that bloodhound thing and sniff around him until Tej forked over his leftovers.

Five minutes plus another dozen came and went, meaning Tej was thirty seconds away from sliding out of the booth when the purple and white Fleetwood pulled into the scattered occupancy of the parking lot. Despite the vacancies, Rome still managed to park almost too close to Tej’s new but old as dirt Acura.

Suki hopped out the car gingerly, closed the heavy door, and turned to watch Rome slowly peel himself out from behind the driver’s seat like he had the joints of a ninety year old man. Moving nothing like an eighty year old, because Tej had seen some spry ones at the gym who could out lift him and outrun him which he honestly didn’t want to acknowledge without processing a massive wave of shame.

Late shift or not, Rome was never one for early or semi-early mornings and made sure everyone knew it; just like now, as he stretched languorously like a sloth after a long siesta and yawned, big and gross, until Suki flicked a parking lot pebble at the back of his ginormous head.

“C’mon,” she moaned, so annoyed and perfectly audible through the glass. “In there. Food. For you.” She said in deliberately stilted words to walk the line between teasing and antagonizing Rome into action, or, as Tej recognized, swinging a small needle-pointed stick swinging a big damn carrot.

Rome stepped into action and began to follow her towards the door. His mouth running the entire time until they came in. “—we’re here, ain’t we? It’s not like Mr. Robot’s gotta run out for an oil change or anything.”

Tej rolled his eyes. One of these days, he’d show Rome just want his nerdom could accomplish and the payback would be _sweet_.

Suki dropped down onto the bench and started sliding over. “Sorry, we’re late, Tej.” When she got her favorite spot by the window, she sprouted an accusing thumb at Rome who’d just plopped down into a slouch and said, “You know how old people sometimes sleep for half the day. I found this one half-laid out of his bed and thought he might tripped last night and broken his hip and got a concussion on the way down.”

“Ha.Ha.Ha.” Rome made a show of continuing to demonstrate his disapproval for all things related to morning, except breakfast. “Some people in this family have to work like day and night to keep us living the dream. Don’t blame me if my batteries need to be recharged.”

Seeing an opportunity to get one in, Tej asked, “So, you’re saying your whole life needs to be recharged, cuz your moves and your swagga are always so tired.”

Of course, Suki tagged in for the assist and rocked up against Rome as she added, “Bri works day and night too, but he doesn’t act like he’s allergic to morning light.”

Rome rolled his eyes so hard, they practically vibrated inside his head. “Yeah, well, Po-Po has a freakin’ double dose of Nos running through his veins; so he don’t count. How he can drink that old Sweet Tart-highlighter fluid-tastin’ bullshit, I’ll never understand. Cuz ew….”

Tej and Suki could agree with Rome on this point: Brian did seem to subsist on a strange combination of their leftovers and gigantic cans of Nos energy drink, and apparently had a high resistance against developing the post-caffeine tsunami jitters and dehydration.

“He’s special.” Suki declared and waved Flo over, who was already half-way done in assembling their well-remembered double order of orange juice.

Since Tej was supposedly the smart one, he knew that no problem, whether real or imagined, could be solved without clues and information. “That he is.” Seconded Tej as Flo set down one normal sized glass of juice for Suki and then an Andre The Giant-sized glass for Rome, which marked the official start of their little triangle’s breakfast meeting,

Those chocolate chip pancakes were ordered, followed by Suki getting French toast, leaving only Rome to halt the forward progress of their little breakfast.

As Rome turned up the charm, Flo was also treated to an equal proportion of cheese. “Hey Ms. Flo. I see you doin’ good this morning and fine, too.” The waitress saw him every couple of nights always smiling twice as wide with adrenaline bright eyes after completing a good show; so she was familiar with Rome’s act.

She cocked an impatient hip beneath her spotted uniform and white apron. “Kid, I’m still doin’ just as I am every other morning you come in here: good and still old enough to be your mother.”

Rome beamed, slyly. “You know I don’t discriminate.”

“Well, I need to keep my dollar bills, so what can I get you?” Flo answered, absolutely nonplussed.

“Trashcan omelet and a double stack of pancakes.”

She wrote the order down with her expert shorthand. “You got it, kid.” Her scrawl finished. “I don’t know how you do it or where it goes.”

Suki wrinkled her nose and offered a small headshake. “We live with _that_ and we still don’t know where it goes. We’ve been thinking he’s got a hollowed out leg…”

“…blackhole gut…” Tej added.

“…tapeworm…” Suki said.

“…gateway to an alternate dimension at the roof of his belly.” Tej concluded.

Flo rewarded them with a final amused grin as she ripped off the order sheet with one hand and stuffed the tablet in her apron pocket with the other.“ Then I hope you kids keep investigating. Science really needs to know the answer to this mystery.” The silence of her exit was sustained by Rome’s attempt at draining the humongous glass in one gulp.

Tej tapped the table top in front of Rome’s glass, making sure to keep his fingers well out of biting distance. “So, what happened to eight o’clock? Did watches become a thing that none you guys have anymore, cuz I’ve been waiting with Flo for, like, an hour and there’s only so much coffee I can drink before I lose the ability to sleep for two weeks.”

Rome took another long sip through his straw, the juice level dropping at least a quarter of the volume, then pulled back to award Tej with a pointed shrug. “I thought eight was, like, a soft eight—like fifty-five is the speed limit on the highway through the city. A suggestion, y’know, and not a demand.”

Tej overcame the urge to roll his eyes, instead joined Suki in shaking his head at Rome’s _Romeness_. “Fifty-five is the law, fool. There’s no room for suggestions in there unless you’re feeling like chatting it up with a judge.” He had no room to judge Rome for speeding, because he, Brian, Rome, and the little ones too had that gene that didn’t respect speed limits. The difference between Rome versus everyone else was that they had a better sense of when to tap the gas versus popping the brakes.

Rome narrowed his eyes at Tej, and to a lesser degree Suki, that promised that he would be eating chocolate chip pancakes too this morning. “You’re not the pretty one, bruh, so don’t worry about me breaking speed limits or dawn or whatever, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suki opened her mouth to go get another crack in but Tej silenced her with a look. She threw a beseeching look back at Tej, practically begging _please, it’s so easy_ , and Tej continued to shut her down.

Rome snapped his fingers in the air between Tej and Suki. “Stop doing that silent mind voodoo. It’s weird.” Inside, their family circle there were smaller circles: Brian and Rome, Tej and Suki, Suki and Giselle, the twins, and Brian with each one of them. When those circles clicked, they worked together and communicated like they shared one mind.

Now Suki countered directly. “You do it with Brian.” Which was an irrefutable statement.

“Cuz we grown and we’re best friends. Y’all, little kids don’t listen when I tell you that me and Po-Po been through _some things_ , so we earned the right to Vulcan mind meld. Y’all got it good now.” This good was another reason why Tej wanted information. He wanted this _Era of Good_ to continue, so that the twins didn’t end up being put through the spin cycle of Child Services like the rest of them. Lastly, he wanted Brian to be happy which was the very least his brother deserved.  

“Exactly, which is why we gotta talk.” Tej told them.

Rome seemed to rearrange himself in preparation for a serious conversation. He dropped his elbows on the table and leaned into his upraised folded hands, a posture that was as defensive as it was offensive; a stance that Rome fell into more after Chino and rarely after juvie. “Tell me what you’re thinking and I might have something to say.” Rome might have learned the hard truths about snitching in the pen, but he had a lifetime of bouncing between foster and group homes with and without sibling back-up to make his mouth learn selective muteness.

Taking a deep breath, Tej opened his mouth to start slowly. Math and numbers, he had an easy handle on, talking required more variables that needed to be positioned carefully. Being big and loud was easy; being quiet and careful was always hard.

“Maybe I’m worried cuz it’s always been just us—or, _almost_ just us. And this time? I wanna know if we have to watch again or if we have to act? Figure out just how far we’re gonna let this go.” They’d made a collective promise after Mr. Rolex had swept through Brian’s life to never let their brother fall so hard without anyone to catch him. To guard his back like he’d done for each one of them a million times over. Whether Brian had admitted it to Rome or himself, he’d loved Mr. Rolex and that fucker had done him dirty. “It’s not like I got any real beef with Toretto…” Because calling him _Dom_ felt like an invitation to just come inside their little group, one that he was already prone to exercising according to Giselle.

Maybe they shared a hive-mind thing because they were legit half-siblings since Suki always knew how to read him and his intentions. “Dom’s different.” She said, offering a minimal amount of reassurance. “I think he actually _gets_ Brian—not like one hundred percent, because, c’mon. Brian’s like…” A mystery inside a puzzle being examined by the wrong side of a magnifying glass. After all these years, Tej still couldn’t figure his brother out, but he knew him in all the ways that mattered.

Rome actually sat back as Flo came around with a try loaded with food. “Alright, Great Boy Detective, let’s consider why Brian might like DT. I mean, dude can drive, he’s got two cars so sick, I still feel like I’m burnin’ up…” He tucked a small piece of bacon hanging too close to the edge of his plate into his mouth. “He’s got a big ass family. He’s got the only haircut that always looks good and clean. And the Big Man can burn in the kitchen—I’m talkin’ riskin’ saying the grace from now to eternity cuz it’s so good burnin’--”

Suki placed a brave hand over Rome’s rambling mouth. “We didn’t ask why _you_ liked Dom. We’re supposed to be talking about why Brian likes Dom.”

Rome plucked her hand off his mouth and scowled at his younger sister. “I hope your hands are clean.” He grumbled. “Cuz I don’t want you touchin’ me if they’ve been all over the place.”

Tej scoffed once with a forkful of chocolate pancake waiting to land in his mouth. “I’m sure your mouth has been in dirtier places just within the last couple of hours.”

Of course, Rome stole a small section of the western quadrant of Tej’s pancake stack in retaliation for that smartass remark. “Anyway, I was being serious. Dom knows what it means to run around these streets. He ain’t squeaky clean but he’s trying to live legit like the rest of us.”

Tej’s next words would be a gamble. “That’s why I worry.” As soon Tej said the words, he knew that he and Rome were about to have one of those really uncool moments. One of those instances where they brushed each other’s buttons wrong, despite not intending to do so. “I did my _research_.”

Rome lowered his fork until it hovered over his plate. “Of course you did.” He answered with too much teeth in his voice, suddenly going unusually tense. “Yeah, and you saw that Big D has done some time. Hell, everyone does time. Me and Bri did juvie. He did twenty-four months and I got dropped in Chino. Just because you go down don’t mean that’s the end of the story and _you_ know better.” His voice beginning to rise with his anger.

Rome was sensitive about the time he did in Chino. Everything from the time immediately preceding Chino to Mr. Rolex was a mess. There was blame on each side: Rome tried to run to wild and Brian wanted to go too straight. When Rome got popped for grand larceny, he blamed Brian for not watching out for him, for not warning him about what was coming, and Brian shot back that Rome had made bad choices on his own. Then came Chino and Rome being a dick by keeping Brian off the visitor’s list and Mama Pearce getting sick. Mr. Rolex might have always been on the horizon but he only got close to Brian because Rome was busy sitting in the house on house arrest, working on his GED online, so there was no one to watch Brian’s back he was doing his thing in order to take care of the rest of them.

Tej dropped his fork, suddenly no longer hungry. “What I know is about the size of Cujo and what I don’t know might as well be Mt. Everest. But what I know is that the charge that sent you to Chino didn’t end up with anyone being hurt. Toretto’s charge has a dude fucked up for life. That’s my worry.”

Brian could bring a smile to a person’s face just as quickly as he could piss them off. Tej had seen how Brian had worked them out of a pair of initially well-meaning foster parents, who decided that they wanted to keep Brian because he actually looked like he could be their natural child while Tej very much didn’t. His brother had proved that there should be a stage in life denoted as _Terrible Thirteen_ , because they got bounced back to a group home with Rome faster than blinking after the stunts Brian pulled with that Orange County couple.

“It’s not like that.” Rome dropped his voice into a furious whisper. “You haven’t seen Bri and Big D together…”

Suki stepped in between mouthfuls of French toast. “It’s almost fairy tale cute when they’re around each other. Brian can’t stop smiling and almost relaxes. Dom just follows him—listens, stares a lot, but he’s always giving Brian attention.”

This was some of that crucial information Tej had been missing. He’d only seen Brian and Dom talking at the barbecue. Otherwise, he hadn’t been around when Dom had visited the club or come by the house to see Brian.

If siblings thought _Brian-Dom_ situation was not worrying about, then Tej would step back and watch it progress when he could. He didn’t anticipate this association becoming a Game of Thrones-esque saga but he smart enough to wager that the course wouldn’t be entirely smooth. He trusted Rome and Suki, not only because they were siblings, but his best friends. Suki was the one he always said was his best friend, but Rome was right up there, too.

Rome resumed demolishing his stack of pancakes and the sad remnants of his omelet. “I don’t know. I’m feelin’ like I can’t be impartial to this situation--”

Now, both Tej and Suki wore twin expressions of surprise with identical eyebrows raises, showing their rarely seen shared genes. So, thanks D.O.C.

Tej held up his hands, almost beseeching. “Impartial? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Tej swore to Mama Pearce to never to let Rome play with a thesaurus again after the Word of The Day incident a few years back, where Rome might have fallen into an ill-conceived fantasy that he could rap—definitely not one of Rome’s actual talents. Dancing, driving, eating hilarious amounts of food, and being a smartass were the top of the heap; rhyming was not.

With one long reach, Rome managed to steal half of the northeastern pancake quadrant from Tej’s plate and chewed it slow and insolently. “I’m me and I’m the only one thinking clearly sittin’ ‘round this table. Brian’s happy, then I’m happy for him…as long as the door is closed.”

“Why do you think that?” Suki asked.

“You’re—” Rome pointed at Tej “— just gunning for Hobbs. I know all about your mancrush…Bffs for life. He used to put you on your shoulders to make you feel tall. That’s why you like him so much.”

Well, Rome wasn’t completely wrong which had to be some kind of record. “Hobbs is _legit Samoan Thor_. Let’s see Toretto do that! I mean, Hobbs was out there toiling as Samoan Thor to earn his scratch to buy the gym and working the Boulevard ain’t no walk in the park, so I have even more respect for his hustle.” And just because the Big Guy now owned the gym and had a clutch of A-List clients mixed in with the regular folk didn’t mean that he’d gotten rid of Samoan Thor for good. Hobbs might have made lemons look sweet at the best of times, but the guy still went to children’s hospitals dressed as Thor and on occasion the Hulk just to cheer up the kids. So, of course, he had Tej’s vote.

Tej liked Hobbs because the Big Guy was always cool and never let his temper get the best of him.

Directing his next question to Suki, Tej asked as he cut into a lone island of syrupy goodness, “Brian say anything to you about _Mr. Rolex_?” That was the only way they could describe the one who came before, because, Brian—who wasn’t normally a chatterbox—went into lockdown mode whenever they strayed too close to the One That Brian Had Walked Away From.

The bad thing—absolutely through no fault of his own—was that Brian was a lot like D.O.C., in that he had a lot of love to give; the unfortunate thing was that he gave it so freely that the people who deserved it the least got a taste and became addicted. See Mr. Rolex as chief example. Now, Tej was left to ask: was Dominic _Ex-Con, Street King, Cookout Host_ Toretto worthy of that love.

“No, you know how Bri can be.” Suki cut her eyes at Rome as he eyed her plate. She put up a protect hand that promised serious injury if he dared to cross into her territory. “He’ll tell you to go left and then he’ll go right and walk straight into everything, just cuz. So he’s still keeping his mouth shut ‘bout _Mr. Rolex_. But I still think we should drop Mr. Rolex in the L.A. River once we find out who he is.”

“Suki!” Tej blinked at Suki. Just blinked. His sister was a hard one.

“I agree.” Rome seconded.

“Our brother is a Bisexual Butterfly--”

“ _Bri-sexual Butterfly_ , you mean.” Rome grinned, triumphantly after sneaking a small corner of Suki’s pancakes, despite her offensive measures. They knew through trial and error that nicknames were best reserved for family circles, because they could be misconstrued. “Just spreading the love. When it’s done right, there’s nothin’ wrong with that.”

They got another minute of near silence in before Tej thought about Rome’s admitted impartiality. Tej pointed his fork at Rome. “No, you like Dom because he’s bribing you with food and if you weren’t so busy stuffing your face, you’d wise up to him playing lion tamer with one hand while making moves to sneak inside your cave with the other.”

Rome’s face scrunched up as he visualized the analogy which didn’t slow down his eating. “First, _ew_. Secondly, double _ew_. Nobody’s got time to be thinking about that.” He cut Suki and Tej a poisonous look as the former snickered at him and the latter appeared far from convinced. “Big D gets my vote cuz he’s the only person I know speaks _Brian-ese_ –”

“That’s not a real language.” Interjected Suki who shook her head and snatched a strip of bacon from the corner of his plate. “I think we had it right the first time: he just _gets_ it, and sometimes that’s all that matters.”

Tej and Rome shared the psychic mind hook-up for long glance. They’ll follow her lead and try to think the same way. Though both knew that getting it and _getting it_ were two different animals that they preferred not to think about around their little sister or involving their older brother.

“Right, Suki.” Tej said and Rome nodded with an obscene amount of pancake in his mouth. Time to change the subject until he and Rome could mentally reset. “Did I tell you about the dude who came into Hobbs’s gym in the electric lime sweatsuit?” When they shook their heads, Tej began the story. “He looked like a walking popsicle when he was on the treadmill—”

They finished breakfast laughing hard as Tej told them about the other general craziness that he saw firsthand in Hobbs’s gym. After he finished up a story about an almost fight in the Mommy and Me Bootcamp class, Suki pushed her plate aside and offered her final two cents: “My vote is for telling _Mama_.” Immediately finding herself not alone in liking the idea.

“Yeah, let Mama decide.” Rome agreed. “She’ll tell us what’s the deal.” Rome looked down at the vacate expanse of the nearly clean whiteness that had formerly contained his king worthy breakfast. He directed his eyes at Tej’s plate that was still a work in progress. “So you done with those pancakes or naw?”

Tej considered his plate and the information he’d gathered today and smiled at his brother, “I think I’m actually going to finish these.” It was his day off. He’d gotten some emotional baggage off his plate and had some of L.A.’s best pancakes in front of him. It was only fair to see how far he could go.


	4. Sound and Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Leon's night. (The end of Chapter 12)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.
> 
> Title from the Alabama Shakes, [Sound and Color](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faG8RiaANek).
> 
> A/N: Leon and Sophie are awesome. Leon is an emotional warrior. He's smart, capable, loyal, and empathetic. Definitely see why he's one of Dom's oldest friends. 
> 
> Warning: **Drug Use**

Leon grinned down at his phone’s screen like he was posing for a late night pic. He appeared ready for a brief snapshot that demonstrated the depths of his endless early morning energy. Or, maybe, just photographic evidence of his courage to go after his dreams.   

Within seconds of looking away, the screen had gone dark, so he started an invisible clock until the next ping. No response from Dom was expected—not with the way Dom had sliced through the crowd to get to Brian like a blade all quiet and sleek; freaking ready for the word _jump_ in order to be all over his skin.

No, Leon didn’t regret pressing send; he considered it an act of friendship to turn on the yellow light when fast was veering too close to sonic, and Dom, who, never met a green light he didn’t like, was gunning for the speed of light.

Frankly, Leon felt the situation was kind of beautiful. Without Vince hovering over him to make a cheap shot about him being Mr. Sensitive and Shit—the name Vince actually had him listed under in every phone that had ever dropped between his fingers. Right now, Leon was free to be open and honest.  

A rusty creak from behind his shoulder got him turning towards the outer door leading into the sweet dark of Sophie’s apartment. From the doorway, she offered him a glass of water, the scent of strawberries tickling his nose as he grasped it.

She offered him a tired grin. “Still no allergies, right? Because my neighbors wouldn’t appreciate an ambulance rolling through here before eight A.M.” The trendy mason jar turned serving glass dangled invitingly in front of his nose.

Leon shook his head once as he accepted the chilly glass, his palm growing slick immediately upon contact. “Nah, me and the microscopic world got no beefs, so you don’t have to worry about not being the model tenant that you are.” After a shallow mouthful, he said, “Drinking this doesn’t make me feel so bad about everything I drank tonight.” Water was good. Water was perfect, unlike coffee that would get them going again when they were mutually ready to settle down to chill.

The wooden porch swing under him swayed with the addition of her body beside him. Once upon a time, the swing had been painted another color, perhaps green or blue, too hard to tell in the twilight of morning, just a color other than the chipping white he could tell.

“We cleanse in this apartment every weekend. It’s a new house rule that allows me to keep my perfect attendance streak alive Monday through Friday but keeps the tips coming Friday to Sunday.” Sophie explained with a dash of cheek as she sipped from her jar.

“I can’t knock the hustle.” Leon followed up, offering Sophie her dues by bowing playfully at the waist. “A good team keeps its shit together.” And Sophie’s team rolled deep and _fine_. Princess Charlotte was Sophie’s roommate which Leon had somehow not known until about twenty minutes ago when she walked up the stairs leading to their second floor bungalow with a knowing smile on her face at the sight of him sitting on their porch swing.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you beat me here,” she said with her red-red lips. “You and your friend have a reputation for moving fast.”

“Only when the price is right,” Leon told her. Being under her gaze made him feel like he was thirteen all over again stepping up to his first boy-girl dance where the principal seemed to possess an extra-human sense of knowing when hands dipped too low and pelvises brushed too close.

As she kept staring at him, Leon tried to go for an offhanded tone but ended up with words that echoed a tired surrender, “We’ll keep it down. Have a good morning,” hoping that the subtle brush off was enough to get Princess Charlotte moving and Leon out from under her snarky gaze.

“Thank you, Leon,” making his name sound so cultured rolling off her England accent. Fancy like smoke rings blown between diamond-studded fingers. “Before I get Soph, promise me you shan’t make the same mistake as other fast boys.”

Curious now, he licked his alcohol dry lips and asked, “What mistakes you talkin’ ‘bout?”

The wind cut through the wide leaves surrounding the balcony’s perimeter, allowing her platinum blonde hair to wave gracefully in the breeze. Her sharp eyes declared that she didn’t care that she had a medusa thing going on, not with a new statue in the making hostage to her. “Pulling the brake too fast. Girl’s tryin’ to have her fun but can’t do it if you go for the brakes or run out of gas.”  Her soft laughter echoing as she disappeared into the apartment. The door clapping shut behind her like a roll of thunder bringing early morning showers from the ocean to thirsty city streets. “So, slow and steady, yeah?”

Sophie brushed his shoulder bringing him back into the moment. “We doing this or not? I told you I like guys who keep their promises and if you oversold it then I’ll give you a one-time pass for another time.”

Leon had always been flexible. With his right hand, he shimmied his phone back into his pocket and with his left, he snagged his lighter and the miniature Gameboy case with his blunts. Jess gave the case to him as a gag gift a couple of birthdays ago because his coordination, unlike most, didn’t go to shit when he was smoked up. Give him 3-D graphics, a two handed controller, and a headset and Leon was good to go.

“This is quality California kush. If you’re into supporting local product and environmentally friendly shit, then this will get you mellow without feeling guilty.” Sophie nodded eagerly.  He sparked the tip and offered Sophie the first go.

Before she took a hit, she inspected the blunt from tip to tip, including the tight seam. “Verified quality, huh? I’m looking forward to not being disappointed for once.”

With one hand over his heart and the other raised high, Leon declared, “Yo, I know it’s quality cuz I got it from my Mom, and if it’s good enough for my Mom and Pops, then it’s good enough for me.” His parents were hippies. Like free love, acoustic guitars, sandal-wearing, anti-established everything, hippies.

“Are you serious?” The curious mix of incredulity and intoxication clouding her tone. “That—actually explains a lot.”

“Most definitely.”  Leon used to feel bad about his good luck in comparison to his friends. He didn’t have issues like the rest.  His Mom and Pop were old—like so old that they joked that he was the last egg on the shelf. He kinda was which was cool. He grew up with stories about Woodstock and Peace, Love, and how to roll the best j’s.

He watched her through a trial of small inhales and slower releases. “Not that I don’t like chilling with you but this feels like…an opportunity. Yeah, a chance that we should be taking.” She said as she waved away the smoke before passing the spliff.

“Whatever you want, I’m game for anything.” Leon answered after a slow smoking exhale.

Sophie took the joint back and pulled ten seconds off of it.” You say that now but if I said truth or dare, what would you say?”

“Cool.” A challenge was just a new doorway to walk through. Unlike most, Leon had never been afraid of a little truth to go with his dares.

Her grin sharpened and he bit his lips as the challenge grew in her eyes. “If I said truth and truth—no dares, no bullshit: would you still be brave?”

Leon snickered lazily, looking away from her lips to the lone balcony light that beamed like a star just out of reach. Now, he wanted…wanted to watch the sunrise with her. Wanted to kiss her to chase the taste of those churro ice cream cones they got before coming back to her place. Wanted to show her just how different he was from the others she might have given the time of day.

“It’s still cool with me. Unlike most people, I know that always telling the truth is the challenge, so hit me with whateva you got.” Her lips probably tasted like strawberries now, but the sugar was still there, hiding in the smallest fissures of her lips, teasing him to chase it with his fast, fast hands and tongue.

“Then I’ll go first: what is your favorite thing…about other people?” She asked.

The answer was easy like pie. “Seeing a smile.” Like his favorite dessert, smiles were unadulterated in sweetness yet complex the deeper the bite.  

Very few people knew that Leon liked smiling. Or, liked watching other people smile. The easiest way to know a person was to read their motion of their lips. Sometimes, people lied through their smiles but Leon could always tell.

He thought of each of his friends—his family—and the words slotted themselves in the right order. So he said, “Mia’s smile is pure warmth like noon sunshine in summer—hot, bright, and free. Your smile’s sweet like sugar and fragile like caramelized glass. Jess’s grin gets twitchy and crocked like puzzle pieces, waiting for a permanent home. Letty’s grin reminds me of the moon waxing and waning. Secretive. Gorgeous. Vince’s smirk goes hot and high like firecrackers soaked in gasoline.” Leon paused at the end, thinking of Dom’s elusive expressions like comets streaking through the cosmos.  “And Dom’s is ecliptic.” It only came out when he let go.

Sophie stopped the circuit her fingertip made around the ring of her glass to meet his eyes. “Wow. That’s beautiful. I should’ve guessed you were a poet too to go with all that ink.” Her finger’s short tracks crossed the little continents of color covering his biceps and traced over the inked words that told the narrative of his life. “Your turn.”

Leon followed her fingers. “What do you want to do with that big thing of yours?” Her brow scrunched confusedly, taking a turn towards angry, trying to figure out which big thing he was talking about. After another toke, he started talking with a chest full of smoke, “All the hottest girls have big—” he exhaled a serpentine cloud, “brains.” He declared finally, dropping into defensive turtle mode as Sophie began to retaliate for him being the literal worst.

“Okay, okay, Soph,” he surrendered and passed her the short smoking stub. “What are you gonna do with that big brain of yours?”

“I’m studying Political Science and Criminal Justice, and no, I don’t want to be a lawyer.” Which he thought was awesome either way. “Law and Order totally killed that desire.”

“Catch the wrong marathon and I get it.”

She nodded. “Yeah no, I wanna make a difference and put this big brain to use. I wanna join the FBI. I wanna be the one that stops the big stuff from happening. Use my big brain to help everyone else sleep well at night.”

“Holy shit.” Because thinking of Sophie with a badge was hot but having to play real life cops and robbers with her would be fucked up. “I’ll surrender now, Ms. Officer.” He stubbed out the tip of the blunt and popped it back into his case.

“That’s future Agent, Smoky.”  She took down half her glass of strawberry water, definitely grateful for that instead of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you how badass I am. Just look at how many dudes I keep in line at the Fox Hole.” The place would be a shit show without her. “Proof’s all around.”

Sticky sweet was the air on the balcony from the burning bud but it wasn’t as potent as Leon’s charm that poured effortlessly through his eyes and the honest tilt of his smile. “I’ll call you whateva you like—Ms. Agent, Lady 5-O, Wonder Woman—just lemme know when you’re on the job, cuz you can never have enough people watching your back.” In his head, he imagined her looking all lady-boss professional, dark shades too, slid down her nose like Let, but silver gauntlets peeking out beneath the cuff of her jacket. Maybe, silver armor shining through the open neck of her starchy blouse with golden pistols and a lasso on her hip. Shit, just the thought of it he now wanted her committed to ink and would hound Jess until he had a sketch. 

“Truth, justice, and the L.A. way, if you know what I mean, is what I’ll stand for.”  Sophie struck a pose like a superhero with her fists braced on her hips and that look that made rowdy customers tuck tail . Apparently, Dom wasn’t the only one who liked them fierce.

She relaxed again and made a move to return to the game, so she said, “My turn again. You’re cool but I’ve gotta make sure that you’re not narrow...minded, so my question is who’s your boy crush. I’ll even go first and tell you who my girl crush is just to be nice.”   

He made himself comfortable in his corner of the bench, waving her on to make her great revelation.

Sophie took to the center of the balcony, finishing the final third of her strawberry water as she walked towards the rail. Now positioned and relaxed, she began with an excited look on her face and a blush that she tried to hide by letting her hair down. “So Klaus—the big guy at the door—and I hang out all the time. Total besties, right. So we started going to Hobbs’s gym over on the South Side and it’s awesome. You know him, right?”

“Met him at Rome’s party.” Knew that the dude made Dom look like a middleweight instead of a heavyweight, had a mama that was on NSA patrol of the neighborhood, and had some history with Brian—the kind that made Dom fold up his arms and grit his teeth like he was chewing concrete. Yeah, he knew enough.

“Right, so he’s big on respect, which again is great, and runs his gym the same way. I mean, he manages to do that and be super-macho without being a dick. It’s like a super power. So he’s got Riley who can smile at you while wishing a good day and communicate that she will fuck you with a bat of her lashes. I’m amazed by her. And her thighs, like, if I ever get kidnapped or something, go get her so that she can kick down the door.”

“You wouldn’t want me to save you?” Leon was surprised but not hurt.

She offered him a puppy dog grin, tilting her head sweetly in the face of his earnestness. “Leon, if you saw her legs you’d realize that you were saving me by calling her…and oh, yeah, or call Kara. She’ll make whoever has decided to take me regret their piss poor choice by tapping out. I’ve seen her do it and it’s my desktop background. She’s awesome.”                              

Hearing Sophie’s high praise, Leon wanted to know that duo as well. “Two girl crushes.” Two was fine by him but the smart guy always had a profile of his competition before racing them.  “Should I be worried about Riley with the crazy thighs or Kara with the She-Hulk MMA arm bars? I’m man enough to admit when I need back-up.” Yeah, he’d have a strong squad: Letty always had his back, Mia had scrawny arms but she could think them out of a tight spot, then Giselle—Baby Badass already and Suki. Oh, yeah, he could definitely fight for Sophie. 

Charmed again, Sophie shook her head gently, “My tastes run towards lean and tatted dudes who ride in bumble bee cars.”

Leon scratched his chin, let his fingers pluck the scraggly hairs on his chin as he reined in his smirking. “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Don’t worry about fighting for my honor or my attention. Klaus has a terrible crush on Kara. It’s so cute, he almost dropped a dumbbell on his foot because he got distracted while watching her self-defense class through the lifting mirror.” Leon’s laughter had grown raspier with his years of smoking. Sophie joined him as the wind picked up and the first fat drops of Pacific rain began to splash on the summer greedy leaves and branches.

She shushed him after a light turned on next door, causing her to jump away from the balcony. “I was serious about the no-noise before eight A.M. The flaming dog poop fairy has been known to make visits to the doorstep, so let’s turn it down just a little bit. Now give me your crush.”

Leon mulled over the options to answer Sophie’s question. There were plenty of dude’s that Leon admired: Jordan, the Iglesias—Julio and Enrique—cuz they were just killin’ the music game, Picasso, Ben and Jerry, and Dom’s Pop. But straight up crushes?  A guy that made him blush and think about the alternate possibilities like the color of kisses and the sound of attraction. More bud wouldn’t help his thoughts but it did give him an idea. Like the fall of a match, each clue caught the spark, now alight inside his head, and growing into a connected ring of fire that formed one helluva flaming winner’s circle.

The answer was so easy and embarrassingly obvious.  “Brian.”  

Sophie rolled her eyes hard enough to cause a neck strain, clearly uninspired by his choice. “An obvious and safe choice.”

“Not to me. Hear me out: Dom and V are like my brothers, and Jess is the closest thing I have to a lil brother, so thinking of any of them like that is, like, ew—no. Just nah. And most of the other dudes I know are grubby and trying to be too hard. Brian’s cool. He can dance, drive like he’s got an engine wired to his nerves,” Brian was Bullitt after all, possessing a rep that most definitely proceeded him in many circles. “-- and he’s, y’know….” Leon trailed off, having caught Sophie’s earlier blush which was straight up contagious apparently.

Finding the line of his thoughts, Sophie supplied the rest. “He’s pretty. Like so good looking that he could quit the Fox Hole and either walk into a modeling contract or a big budget movie if he took a stroll down Studio Row.”

Leon bobbed his head in agreement. “Right? He’s got all the variables for a perfect equation: talent behind a wheel and with his feet plus his personality—I mean, dude is actually _nice_ , even if he is a smartass—plus the external features, so you get…well, him.”

A couple of weeks ago, he decided to pry the stress monkey off Dom’s back by getting him to crack the lid on his internal pressure cooker of feelings. He knew the right notes to hit and the very wrong ones, too. So dropping his jokes about a hypothetical hook-up with Brian wasn’t quite as improbable or as innocent as he implied. More of an attempt at riling Dom up. Not that Leon was the type to poach his friends’ hook-ups.  

But Brian though? Maybe if they didn’t share a mutual love of GT-Rs and seeing Dom happy, he wouldn’t be nearly as fascinated. A couple of minutes of chitchatting during the afterparty at Fat Burger opened up gates of interest. Brian had declined a smoke but waxed poetic about the first hit, applicable to the sting of nicotine or the humid stink of weed.

So now Leon wondered what it would be like to light up with the rattling echo of his heart beat in his ears drowning out the bass in the trunk. Just feel the seconds bleed between the black quarter miles with nothing but the long fingers of streetlights to offset the cherry glowing between his fingers. Green meant go but red made them stop, breathe, and draw out the high like a smoky thread tethering their lips. Like the Big Bang, a beginning and end arrived in a tunnel of a billion particles, but only Leon would remember this collision as a kiss. The only type of shotgun meant for mouths. A moment that lived on in some other universe where Leon’s fingertips permanently haunted my motor oil and axel grease touched Brian without curiosity attached—just straight feelings and no guilt.  

But it was a thought floating on like a leaf in the summer night breeze, disappearing in a blink of Sophie’s eyes, a place where he felt comfortable; a place where he belonged.

Shit, he ain’t blaming the kush on where his head was going. Shouldn’t be thinking about Brian and Dom, and certainly should be thinking about what it’s like to just be with Brian.

As a rule, Leon liked spicy food but didn’t do spicy emotions. He left the fire and fuel in the veins to the ones that could properly wield them like Dom, Vince, and Letty. No, his mood was stuck on copacetic, easy like ocean breaks.  But he did green—different than the lights on the street or weed in his papers; green that flashed in his eyes and buzzed in his ears when he watched Dom nosedive into the freedom of his heart.

Just watching Brian and Dom in that dark nook in the Fox Hole was a contact high that made fuel for lazy daydreams. He had the intentions of a saint but the mental gutter of a straight up—not so straight sinner. A man could only resist so much. He hadn’t lied when he told Dom about his hope at being the rebound. Because why the hell not?

Leon’s got an idea of the type of morning that Dom’s having with an empty house to himself. He could make a guess but there were some things that he just _knew_ —not because he was smart like Mia or Jess—but observant, because he was an ‘A’ student in the school of life. As always, he and Vince were trailing Dom, inevitably headed in the same direction, even if they were too occupied by who was riding beside them to notice.

That thing ahead looming like the Hollywood letters was love. And he was cool with that. This was what he wanted for Dom: the white picket fence, family, a shit-ton of kids, and prison so far on the back burner that Dom couldn’t see it in the rearview. This was the good shit coming for them, and Leon couldn’t be more relieved: this was the handbrake; the failsafe to keep Dom and the rest of them from going deep in the wrong the direction and spinning out there.

Sure, he doubted that l-o-v-e would keep them completely legit but, as always, he was willing to try.

So Sophie knotted her hands behind his neck, pulling him down as she subtly shifted to her toes to meet him. Their bodies moving in a lazy impromptu dance set to the whir of misty rain. “You’re still here, Leon? Still awake with me, right?” She asked, having noticed his mental voyage.

“I’m here with you, Soph, and ready to kick-it til sunrise.”

She stared into his eyes, a soft smile pulling at her mouth. “My tips have been counted and my homework’s done, so I can sleep and chill or chill and something else until I have to get back to work.” Her hair formed a black corona around her face as the summer breeze grew.

Leon patted his pocket, fingers tapping over his phone. “ I’ve made my excuses already, so I’m down to ride wherever or however you like. My back is strong so I’m ready for the couch.”  His mama raised a gentleman.

Her small hands pulled deeper into her orbit, her eyes greedily tracing over the sharp lines of his ink and the hard valleys of his lean muscles. A stray thought considered whether he measured up in her eyes. When she reached his eyes again, there was only his reflection in her wide brown eyes. No stars. No competition. Just him. “You’re in luck. I actually have a free couch and enough juice to see the sunrise.”

He held her under the dulling light of the balcony’s solitary bulb, swaying to the soft tempo of the breeze and the rain, the heavy drag of a long night, Corona, and kush downshifting his mind.

Leon loved wild nights. Give him flashing lights and the smoky haze of burnt rubber scorched into pavement and the heady mix of adrenaline and gasoline to make it a good night. But if you wanted to fill him up with fuzzy feelings then give Leon a sunrise and the scent of California dew.

Sophie lifted up on her toes to reach him while he curled under the lasso of her arms to meet her lips. A billion particles between the valley of their lips. The rain making a backbeat to the thud of their hearts.

Dawn was coming and before the colors burst over the horizon, they had to seal the night with a kiss. The perfect start to a beautiful morning.


	5. Hooked Up on the Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that got you here boiled down to simply: See Carter plan. See Carter manipulate and wait. See Carter try not to be an asshole. See Carter fail the last one by a Texas mile. __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.
> 
> Title from the Kehlani's "[Gangsta](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAYgZEMMWxo)".
> 
> A/N: Alternates between Carter's stream of consciousness in the 2nd person and the past, still from Carter's POV.  
> A/N 2: I've wanted to write Carter's side of the story since the beginning and it's been a struggle to wrangle his tale into the story without spoiling too much or allowing him to take over Between The Points.  
> That in mind, there's references to violence and a non-consensual situation that have big impacts on the plot.  
> A/N 3: Thank you to everyone who is still reading this series. Your patience has been invaluable. The main BTP story should be updated this week!
> 
> Warning: Drug Use and Carter's mouth and mind.
> 
>  
> 
> **Carter Verone's Playlist** , "Songs in The Key of Gangster Love"  
> Jidenna- [Classic Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsiN0W15w0U)  
> Kehlani- [Gangsta](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAYgZEMMWxo)  
> The Weeknd- [Wicked Games](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1OTWCd40bc)  
> Cream-[Sunshine of Your Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zt51rITH3EA)  
> James Davis- [Co-Pilot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WngIwz5d74)  
> Tommy James & The Shondells- [Crimson and Clover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpGEeneO-t0)  
> Frank Ocean- [Super Rich Kids](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tM8B01BkKTs)  
> Jimi Hendrix-[May This Be Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpmeYPhh6Ks)  
> Kiiara-[Tennessee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6RjrKDjJzI)  
> James Brown- [Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBBpeknCuMg)  
> Beyonce- [Crazy in Love (Fifty Shades verision)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SCaWesth9U)  
> Donny Hathaway- [A Song For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VE1nh7KREcA)  
> Majid Jordan feat. Drake- [My Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqJ-Shv3kEw)  
> Moody Blues- [Nights in White Satin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QdykXAT19Go)  
> The Weeknd- [The Hills](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzTuBuRdAyA)  
> The Seeds- [Can't Seem To Make You Mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLGOCK4XxZA)  
> Miguel-[NWA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mobbfyhYek)  
> Sinead Harnett-[If You Let Me](http://sinead%20harnett%20if%20you%20let%20me)  
> The Association- [Never My Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDWNpSLT3pU)  
> Bruno Mars- [Grenade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SR6iYWJxHqs)  
> Curtis Mayfield- [Pusherman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCDAfa-NI-M)  
> Fantasia-[Without Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6n5SqwERoOc)  
> Penny & The Quarters- [You and Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZUm2Gp3_AA)  
> Boyce Avenue (Kanye West cover)- [Love Lockdown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpsJ5oWvZ-Q)  
> Tomoyasu Hotei- [Battle Without Honor or Humanity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7yTeF9ajcw)

The term gentleman’s club had a broad definition these days. Nearly as flexible as the prerequisite spandex and lycra for working the Fox Hole Lounge’s stages. Gone were the days of political stratagems woven between brandy sniffers and cigars, and social espionage conducted with a deck of cards and innuendo-laden inquiries about business.

The Fox Hole Lounge was steadily on the come-up, exponentially better than a few months ago, and lightyears beyond the strings of Christmas lights and disco balls, confetti canons, and contagious body glitter of Gallows 24.  You take it in like a stretch of calm land before the blood and stench of conflict have saturated it. The Fox Hole’s staff—male and female—demonstrated the full extent of _exotic dancing_ and was good enough to keep you entertained and willing to part with your cash, even though you held back until the main event.

Pity, there was no dress code. Your suit alone could qualify as adding a touch of class to the place. Like a drop of chlorine in a contaminated pool decreased the risk of catching dysentery, you were a treatment after a host of symptomatic events but were far from being the cure.

But your suit though: made of the finest Italian wool, tapered and pressed so crisply that each step was as dangerous as swinging a sword wildly, the pockets lined with red satin, and the lapels of a glossy onyx that evoked a metallic finish like true armor.

Hell, you hadn’t come to the Fox Hole Lounge for the buffet specials, moderately priced alcohol, or the pretty boys dancing around freely offering the opportunity to look but no guarantees on touching afterwards. Well, except for your past that had been decisively skewed towards touching with unlimited chances to look.

Despite the bottle service you’d ordered chilling on the table, your cigar smoldering brazenly in a saucer requisitioned as an ashtray, and the round of shots that you’d just imbibed with your guests after a surprisingly good first act, you weren’t here to be entertained.

You were here for a fight. There was no rule against looking good while you loosened the leashes and muzzles on the dogs of war.

When you battled, you stocked up on weapons. But when you planned for war, you built an army.

Who said that? The fuck if you knew.

Confucius? Not likely.

Probably one of a million dimes of advice that you’d learned at the knee of one uncle or another, not really getting it until you were the one handling the money after staking your flag in a piece of Vinci real estate where you decided to figuratively step back in time to operate a nightclub-casino mash-up that was essentially a twenty-first century speakeasy.

You’ve made it. No balance was owed to the infinite holder of the cosmic gains and losses. You’d been square since you willingly stepped into the School of Hard Knocks, then excelled so far that you rewrote the script and got the diploma for your time spent.

Only a true conqueror could understand the balancing act that you’ve engineered for yourself. _Vici_ ran itself these days, nearly self-sustaining, thanks to the eternal hope, crippling addiction, and the guaranteed parlay for anyone from the underground economy desiring to conduct business far from a street corner. Like Julius Caesar, you wouldn’t be nearly as great if you didn’t come from a great legacy.  Wheeling, dealing, stealing, and turning a profit were in your blood.

The hostess returned to the stage to hype up the next act. Her dark features paired with the platinum blonde curls and cherry lipstick were wasted on a place like this, but the across-the-pond accent probably made your companions feel almost at home.

A tumbler of half-decent Scotch and righteous fury swirling in your head dulled the pulse of the music, staving off a hiphop EDM-remix-induced migraine to make the conversation with the less charming William and Harry _palatable_.  The rules of gentlemanly engagement started them off with a round of Grey Goose, a bottle of Bollinger on ice to complete the tableau of dangerous men discussing dangerous things cheerily, and stereotyped pints of Guinness for them and a glass of Craigellachie for you, savored straight without any ice, because you didn’t derive your courage from alcohol—the quickness of your wit, the speed of your fists, and the heft of your _assets_ gave you more than enough.

You lifted your glass as you spread your legs wider and allow a sideways grin to curl your lips as you smile congenially at your compatriots.

At least the bar was indirectly feeding your portfolio by serving up a brand of tequila that you’d just bought stock in. Based off of a hot tip from one of your semiannual high rollers.

You’d just started bringing your point to a conclusion and explained, “This club with its myriad of epileptic fit-inducing strobe lights, Health Department Grade A receiving buffet, and most of the employees will be yours.”  You pause to let the scope of their bounty sink in. “So, that’s it, gentlemen, my terms and everything you need to do. Or, continue to do. All I ask is that you pick up the pace with transitioning the ownership. The sooner, the better for all of our interests.”

Positioning yourself to sit in the cradle of the booth was a strategic and comfort victory. The seating gave you full range to observe the many corners and pockets of activity on a bustling Friday night. It also gave you the freedom to luxuriate in the Fox Hole Lounge’s apparently good fortune, evidenced by the new leather of the premium booths. Finally, it gave you a subtle high ground advantage compared to the Shaws, and in battle, the high ground could make or break a stand.

The elder Shaw brother sat at your twelve o’clock and was distinguishable from the younger by his signature bald head that was more than likely due to a love affair with a razor and a nasty spat with genetics. The younger brother who sat at three o’clock possessed the dark hair and stubble of a Hollywood hero or villain; either would suit him well with his handsome features. In addition to the accent, it wouldn’t be surprising if he were being strangled by panties every night. That actually sounded like fun.

Deckard leaned over his Guinness to pitch his raspy voice across the low table and above the thumping din of the club. “Simple e’nuff what you’re asking, but why the ten step plan to shut this place down?” The elder Shaw asked. “If it’s such a get, why not make the old bird and his toadie an offer that they can’t refuse? I thought your family owned the trademark to that course of action anyway.”

Your lips curved in a smile behind the rim of your glass, amused by the thoughts swimming in your head. Some days you just wanted to see the place dance inside the jaws of flames; while other days, you would be the sole spectator centered between dark corners to watch a dancer moving inside a single arm of light, dancing to music long fallen out of favor except by seasoned ears. Just the two of you--just you and him locked together with no interruptions and plenty of time to wash away a terrible past.

Everything that got you here boiled down to simply: _See Carter plan. See Carter manipulate and wait. See Carter try not to be an asshole. See Carter fail the last one by a Texas mile._

Two out of three wasn't too bad. No one was perfect. And if the goal was accomplished then what the fuck else needed to be said.

But today was not that day to dream. Not the day to stumble because you were reminiscing too fondly then lost the high ground due to your head being in clouds made of silk sheets.

 So you answered, “I want the club gone for the purposes of my clients, who’d serve my purposes in the end. It’s all about location, fellas. Just like no one is honing in on your places in Silver Lake and West Hollywood, I think my clients would like a little more discretion as we move forward.”

A year and a half ago, you wouldn’t be making this pitch alone. Your back would’ve been covered from all sides, and that was why you were here. The intel you’d traded had stirred the Shaws’ interest, and business was business no matter what. Even the lust for glory could be topped by the crinkle and heft of cash. Rumor had it that Deckard and Owen had been Special Forces that traded blood and bullets for lust and flesh and killed in both.

The cut of their leather jackets gave the distinct impression that they were carrying. The European Behemoth at the door had to have sized them up with the same conclusion but calculated that it was less of a risk to let them in than not. By your estimation, you wouldn’t be surprised if a third of the club was packing. It was a real _gentlemen_ ’s club after all.

Many things you could be called but a hypocrite wasn’t one of them. The glock rested in its holster beneath your left arm and the .38 slumbered above your right sock. Both loaded and tested after previous experiences. You wondered if Brian still carried.  He’d been so good when he did. Wistfully, you think about Brian’s natural gifts: his dancing, the driving, his determination, and his aim— like a fish in water, Brian with a gun was only natural.

Doubling down on this partnership required more effort than you had patience to give but you would try anyway. “We have a good relationship. I’d like to keep it as such, and what better way to do that than share the wealth with friends.” A magnanimous smile stuck into place as you finished your offer. “This place is yours for the taking and whatever you need to _take it_ , I will freely give.” This must’ve been how the guardians of the gates of Rome must have felt before they let the Barbarians inside.

“If we were really friends, then you’d clear that ‘hands-off’ policy on O’Conner. He and Pearce are the prize set of this place, and it feels unnatural to try to pull them apart. He’s the catalyst that’s made this bin something to actually speak about.” Owen stated while giving you an assessing eye that could’ve just as easily have been flirtatious if you weren’t sitting in front of him and his Terminator of an elder brother.

Keeping the Shaws enticed was half the battle as just an ounce of boredom caused the eyes to start wandering. You let them have their fun thinking that your boy had fallen hard, so hard that they might have a chance to pick him up if you weren't fast enough. Not likely. Naive and stupid were two settings on opposite ends; you’d be stupid to trust the Shaws not to try to entice Brian over to the dark side, but you’d be naive to think that they wouldn’t.

It was a game of balancing wants versus desires versus needs. They all wanted money. They desired power. The only difference being how much they valued these things but you were still reluctant to actually voice it: you needed him.

They had no idea that Brian was back to where he started from.

You exchanged an acknowledging head tilt. Owen struck you as handsome—rakishly so, but you’d always favored pretty even more. Monica and Brian proved that you had a type. Curiously alluring scars aside, you doubted that Own was serious either. Reasons why were better left unexplored.

There was no luck required to miss Brian’s first set which the Shaws had caught while standing at the bar. It was planned that way to be an exercise in avoiding masochism: watching him move, looking better than ever, captivating an entire room, knowing that your want of him was buried beneath one hundred plus other threads of attraction being woven that night. Feeling cheap and sullied for once.

The glimpses you’d caught of him tonight proved that he looked good.

Which required repeating. Again.

He looked _good_. Better than he had the last time you’d seen him—broader, glowing with an intangible light that made you yearn to reach out.

The last time you’d seen Brian in living color had been a day of revelations. That day you realized the entirety of your plans had been constructed on sand, and Brian had become the raging waters to wash them away.

The only reminders of those plans: a video on your old cell, a bullet casing, and a ring.  

* * *

Carter’s closet might have represented the multi-functionality of shades of classic black but he had a thing for color. Red invoked heat and taste, made him desire to cross all avenues of the senses and made him crave more until he became intoxicated by the sweet burn of cinnamon on the tongue.

Monica had been red.

Passionate, sexy, dangerous.

Like the soles of her Louboutins as she marched to the black coupe, pulling a Louis Vuitton suitcase across the loose gravel with only a single glance thrown behind her as her eyes crinkled darkly and her sweet mouth turned sour, yelling back into the void between them: “I’m done! Have been done. For so long that I forgot what I wanted for myself and I realize it’s not you… and...and _your everything_!”

She slammed the bag into the backseat. “Your bullshit, I’m so over it.” Then she offered Carter one final look at what used to lay in her beautiful almond eyes for him.  “Good luck with these plans and your Goodfellas role play.” She released a sigh of marginal contrition, as if she held a small nugget of regret for leaving Carter behind. “I’ve just realized that I done playing. And what I want is a reality where I’m better than this.”

Monica stepped into the driver’s seat then shut the door and called out as the engine hummed, “Kiss Mickey for me, asshole.”

Her taillights glowed a mocking red as she tore through the drive away from the condo, Carter’s favorite pump-action shotgun riding in the passenger seat beside her Birkin bag. Monica wanted more. Decided to fight for truth, justice, and the American way, and Carter’s way was stopping her, so she’d left.

The departure was sudden—unexpected, lacking precipitation as far as he could tell, but instinctively motivated by something or someone else. He would find out which was the case and get his retribution. A matchbook gave him all the answers that he needed.  

There was a strip club, Gallows 24, that catered to the married and mini-van set off the 105 in Downey, where Carter assumed that he would find the Fabio wannabe who’d given Monica such good _conversation_ with a side order of good dick that the enlightenment came as a prize instead of the free toy at the end of the Happy Ending. Like a strip club two-for-one special. The convergence of these events then led her to drop kick him from her life and then go on her feminist march to the sea like General Sherman, leaving Carter to snuggle up with his gas can, another cigar, and blow torch in search of the banana hammock swinging pole dancer who’d sent her packing.

**

Blue was the color of failed arson.

Carter always had liked the color red more. Red was a color that stretched the imagination, such as the many ways that Carter intended to reduce Gallows to ashes.  But blue entered into Carter’s top five in the form of streaks of light haloing the pretty boy in the parking lot who successfully persuaded him to leave Gallows 24 unburnt and the life coaching dick-giver alive and well. For now.

There was a cigarette dangling from the corner of Carter’s lips as he listened to the Pretty Boy talk him down from a felony. “You know there’s no smoking allowed.” Pretty Boy pointed at the sign next to the entrance, but mostly gave side-eye to the no-no mix of gasoline in proximity to a lit cigarette.

Carter flicked away his smoldering cherry and whipped out a lighter. “Fine by me. I can stand right here and watch the place burn down just as well.”

The Pretty Boy spared the rainbow lights of the retrofitted club a long glance. “I’ll take his place until dawn if it makes you feel better.” Pretty Boy offered with the stiff upper lip of a longsuffering martyr or just a tired dancer at the end of a very, very long shift.

_Was Pretty Boy Cinderella or some shit?_ , Carter wondered as he sized him up.

“Deal.” Carter replied, mostly agreeing to the offer because it would give Carter more time to smoke out the deets on his target. “I applaud the enthusiasm but you aren’t going anywhere with me looking like a Riverside street urchin.” The Chucks and everything else invoked visions of a skater boy that got lost on his way to the beach. Definitely not appropriate for his club or the casino floor.

“Riverside?” Pretty Boy huffed out an unexpected laugh, finding the insult incredulous instead of offensive. “I could claim a lot of places to rep but Riverside ain’t one of ‘em.”

Now Carter wished he hadn’t gotten rid of his cigarette as a puff of smoke would really communicate how nonplussed he felt. “ _Oh_ , that makes a whole world of difference then.” Sarcasm on pointe as Carter rolled his eyes, jangling his keys to lure Pretty Boy away from Frankenstein’s Hot Wheels car, whistling and corralling like a creepy stranger with a van and candy. “You’re riding with me. If someone who knows me sees me in your Matchbox Car, then they’ll think that not only have I been disowned but now I’m absolutely destitute.”

Pretty Boy shrugged off the insult, much in the way that some superheroes deflected bullets with their chests or bracelets, while still looking as calm as ice water. “There’s always walking.” Countered Mr. Low Rent Abercrombie.

Now Carter scoffed, “And there’s peddling ass, too, to pay the bills but I don’t see you doing that either.”

Pretty Boy chuckled. “Asshole.”

Carter picked up his items assembled for demolition. “Keep talkin’ dirty to me, Blondie, and see what happens.”

As they walked to Carter’s car, Pretty Boy added, “Barstow actually,” as a forgotten point of clarification.  Carter was almost impressed. _Apparently, Pretty Boy could multitask. Good._

“Thanks for the update, Barstow Ken. Now get in the car and prove that you can do the one thing I need besides being pretty.”

Pretty boy bestowed a look of admiration on the black Mercedes AMG GLE 63. “What do you need me to do?” And looked directly at Carter who now realized that Pretty Boy’s eyes were ridiculously blue for the first time. Like summer sky blue. So Carter inserted another cigarette in his mouth then cuffed the end to light it, breathed deeply then exhaled a lungful of dragon smoke.

After discretely clearing his throat, Carter declared, “Listen.” He pointed to the passenger door again.

“Now get in the car.” Carter turned the ignition as Pretty Boy slid in beside him, then offered him the cigarette, which was accepted, after a final puff.

As the car growled low and softly, the Pretty Boy shot him a small grin as his head bobbed to an unknown frequency. “I can tune this for you. Only if you want, of course. She’s too classy to not be singing the right notes. And she's just pitchy enough that only a good ear can tell.”

“Get through tonight--”

“Brian.” Pretty Boy supplied.

“Right, Brian, and I’ll let you go elbow deep inside her.”

“Sounds like a plan, Carter.” Then they were spraying gravel like bullets to get back to Vinci where the blessings of dry cleaning idling in another trunk and Carter’s seedling business growing out of the fertilizer of his name awaited them.

Apparently, there was one caveat to Brian’s participation. “I’m rolling out at sunrise no matter what. And before you ask, I’ve got stuff—mainly things not involving you to do—when the sun’s up.”

“Since you’ve been so remiss as to tell me about your unofficial membership in a vampire coven, I can assure you that what you and me need to do won’t take you away from your stuff or things.”

It wasn’t until the sun ushered Brian’s exit after a successful run of hours playing the new arm candy with an array of chameleon-like qualities that Carter realized that Brian had made him from the jump.

Plenty of songs warned about boys with fast cars. Too bad Carter couldn’t remember a single one after Brian smiled at him and flicked him off when Carter dropped him off outside of Gallows 24.

Once settled back in the condo, Carter popped open the cigar case that he’d inherited from his father and slid out one last stogie before his morning sleep. Smoked it down while laughing through the smoke rings then snapped off a text.

 

Brian was lucky that Carter liked a little lip.

His gut said this was just the beginning. Like the House, his gut always had luck on his side.

* * *

Now you watched as Brian contorted his body to curl around the center stage’s pole while the sound of whining zippers became audible like a frustrated sigh across the bar.

The _obvious_ needed to be stated again: Brian looked amazing.

You roared off the path of the mental detour to launch back into your personal war as soon as you saw _him_ standing by the bar. Brian was still tweaking the recipe—had tried good guys that had been _too good_ , too clean for him, but now he’d found a bad boy who might seem like a good guy. You would tell him, as soon as you got the chance that this bad boy was definitely the type of dog that turned and bit as soon as its tail was pulled.

If Brian was naïve enough to believe that Toretto was clean, then you’d had him pegged wrong from the start: he was a real sucker, and not meant in a fun way, just as unfortunate as any other letdown. You could smell that Toretto was dirty. Didn’t even need your nose wide open to do it.

Here came the red again slicing through your vision as you watched _him_ watch Brian.

Morbid curiosity wanted to know how well the two of you measured up, though there could be no true contest. Besides giving you money and good looks, Mother Nature threw in the extra bonus of converting everyone you’d ever slept with into a believer of bigger being better. Sure, you’d liked when Brian got down to business and took control. But you knew that Brian loved how deep you could go, how fast and long, and hard, and how you filled him up like no one had ever before.  Quenching that aching loneliness by sliding so deep. Got him so good that Brian couldn’t lie about anything: not his past, his family, or the fact that he’d stopped playing pretend with you inches from the start.

* * *

Carter’s jabs made the heavy bag swing in an asynchronous rhythm to the music Brian played as he moved about the open poolside deck to practice a new routine. Brian had worked his way another athletic sequence of twists and gyrations that would have him soaked in dollars in the near future.

The condo in Malibu had been the last gift Carter's parents had given him before he’d been officially cutoff.

A punch released nearly two-hundred pounds of pressure. Repeated over minutes from varying angles, speeds, and vectors, it led to a catharsis: an exercise in mindfulness by visualizing a victory—punch after punch, the scent of iron and sweat, and the peace earned from the twinkling of scattered teeth on the floor. The ache in his muscles centered Carter.

Guns brought a definitive end to all conflicts, but fists were designed to augment memory: to teach lessons, to reward, to punish, and Carter’s fists epitomized the benefits of a long reach.

Falling into a steady one-two-hook combo that marched out perfectly with the musical compromise that Carter and Brian had agreed to: a trap remix laid over a classic doo wop joint, and Carter reveled in the length of his reach as he watched Brian from his periphery  out on his open air patio that faced the lush Pacific ocean and the fickle lights of Malibu. A sunset over the pregnant white capped swells of the ocean paled in comparison to the moonglow lights from the balcony reflecting into the pool around which a pretty boy danced. It sounded like a picture in the Louvre.

From across the pool, Brian rose from a segment-ending crouch. “It doesn’t look like you’re crapping thunder or spitting lightning over there,” he called after catching Carter watching. “In fact, you look like you’re trying to avoid paying the cover at Gallows.” Brian squirted a hard squeeze of water into his mouth, then poured the rest over his head. “For shame,” Brian made a whickering sound between his teeth, jokingly admonishing Carter.

Carter caught the bag in a bear hug as it continued to swing under the force of his momentum. The position making it easier to keep his eyes on Brian who was in the process of setting up the poolside landing to look like the start of a nutrition supplement commercial or a skin flick. The latter would’ve been greatly preferred by Carter had it not been for the floating glow of cell phone lights from the neighboring patios. Never one to share, Carter wouldn’t start now if he could help it.

“I know better than to get between a stripper and his tips.” Carter pushed off the bag, let it swing until he resumed the steady march of jabs. “Call it quality control—can’t have you putting sub-par work out there for your loyal fanbase.” Which was evenly split between the soccer mom demographic and guys who swore that Tommy Bahamas was the height of fashion.

“Truly doing a saint’s work.” Brian fired back with sarcasm notched at a solid five. “To be good requires hard work; to be the best requires hard work and luck. I’m still not sure on the exact recipe but it’s both of those or nothing at all if you’re gunning for the top. Even a rich boy like you should know that, but if not…” Brian shrugged before finishing off the rest of his water.

He peaked dramatically over at Carter’s position across the pool, his head and shoulders bobbing and weaving as if scoping for the best vantage point around some unseen barrier. “Maybe the silver spoon in your mouth is just too big for you to see the obvious.”

Carter widened his feet before bending low to speedbag his blows across the center of the bag. “Not all of us. Have a pocket full of motivational speeches. Courtesy of the State of California. To give us the initiative to succeed. Or unoriginality to use them for fuel.” Then he struck the bag hard enough to make the chain whine.

Brian flicked him off, laughing off the insult as he packed up his things into a ratty backpack. “I could always leave, you dick, then you’d have no one to flex for except your mirror. And being in love with yourself eventually gets boring.” Brian let his hand skim the pool’s surface until he drew back to allow a spray of drops to descend from his palm like rain.

Carter estimated that the indwelling lights in the pool’s base backlit the calm waters were a couple of shades different from Brian’s eyes. Still a close enough match in order to be hypnotized by the reflection of the water in Brian’s eyes which made them glow preternaturally bright against the dusky sky. The moment presented the only form of arresting that was acceptable.

“You’re not hitting the breadcrumb trail yet, Hansel. After a long night at both gigs, the only thing you need to do is sleep in my ridiculously large bed, eat—and I can have whatever your picky ass wants--” Not that Brian was in any capacity _picky_ , just conditioned to treat food as a priority for others first and then himself second. “Twenty minutes or less, I can get anything here, cuz I’ve gotta a guy.”

Brian dropped his stuff near the patio bar. “You’ve got a guy?” Brian asked as his lips twitched.

“Yeah, I’ve got a guy." Carter repeated as he unapologetically eyeballed every inch of Brian's exposed skin. "Someone willing and able to get the job done who understands that doing the work means that skills are good and all, but that _you_ can make or break a job, because of your head, baggage, or other unimportant bullshit.” The subtext of Carter’s droll snark making it plain as day whom they were discussing.

Brian retorted, “I’ve got another job to get to--” The mysterious job that Brian always had to rush off to that was neither Gallows 24 nor Vici.

Carter rolled his eyes, having heard this cryptic excuse more than enough. “I’m sure it pays the big bucks.” Then lightly pawed at the bag. “Worth your time and mine to constantly hear about it without you actually saying anything about it.”

Brian slung a frosty look at him, stinging but far from cutting with frigid intent. “I have responsibilities that need me unlike you just wanting me to hang around.”

“You stick around, cuz you like it. Like straddling the line between being an upright citizen and not. Despite you tearing up the streets with your hopper friends, Speed Racer, and offering close contact for cash, you still haven't made peace with your own recklessness.” Carter grinned as he shuffled around the bag, imagining his point had put Brian on the ropes. “I may want you to hang out but you stick around cuz you like to get a contact high off my recklessness instead of embracing your own.”

Since it appeared at Carter had actually shut Brian up for once, he rolled into the momentum like his shoulders did as he progressed through his circuit.  “Unlike you, I accept the limitations of my recklessness, and try to move the barrier just a little bit each time to find my real limit.” Carter struck the bag with series of fast hooks that would’ve loosened teeth for sure. “Call it me trying to live my best self.”

Brian launched off the bar to amble towards Carter, then nonchalantly said, “Your limits are shallow, Carter. You rarely understand the word ‘no’.  And just because you’ve got a pair of golden gloves tatted on you…. Doesn’t mean that you’re the greatest that ever walked. I’d be careful about believing my own hype too much.”

Carter landed another hard blow that made the bag groan. “First, I was a champ, and second, all of us don’t have your chameleon charm to get by.”

Carter liked that his skills made him someone to avoid offending, but Brian was not to be fucked with thanks to a rough stay in juvie and an eclectic assortment of benignly neglectful foster parents who through a capricious series of events imparted lessons that made Brian capable of going defensive like a light switch being flipped on and off.

Carter landed a jab combo that would inevitably make a jaw crack under the force. “We all gotta die sometime. Might as well die while I’m still pretty.” Declared Carter after adding a sightline hook to the bag. A self-fulfilling prophecy if he continued his course of swimming with sharks bigger and faster than him in the pursuit of claiming his slices of the legitimate and illegitimate apple pies promised to all in desire of making it in America.

Each punch was a reminder to never be played for a sucker…again

Now Brian stood behind the heavy bag to brace it against Carter’s blows, holding tighter as Carter unleashed his fury at nearly being screwed over by longtime patrons who didn’t even offer him the courtesy of lube before trying to fuck his poker tables over.

Brian stared him down as Carter continued the torrent of blows against the bag. “If that’s what you want, fine. Then you should listen to me long enough to enjoy being pretty.” Brian released the bag as Carter’s fury decelerated to breezy taps, now that most of Carter’s fury was spent.

Brian catching on that one of the side tables was being scammed saved Carter nearly a quarter million last night. That creative spark returned with the rise of his fury and his show of divine retribution involving the blowtorch and his pet Mickey earned him the pleasure of Brian’s daytime company.

After last night, Carter wouldn’t have been surprised if Monica had left him, but Brian was here and he stayed.  Loyalty spoke louder than Brian’s half-truths and omissions. “Oh, Sweetheart, I wouldn’t want you to be lonely. So I’m not going anywhere.” Then Carter wrangled Brian in for a sloppy, sweaty kiss, paying extra attention with his tongue to the bruise flowering at the corner of Brian’s lips like a lovely beauty mark.

Carter growled, “Pretty and tough—I’ll bet on that every time.” Then slipped Brian more tongue and tightened his hold to keep Brian from blowing back to his hood and the truths that were buried within his half-lies.

Carter broke the kiss but shouldered the bag out of the way so that Brian could embrace the full breadth of his vibrating body, chest gleaming with sweat, and boxing shorts soaked and clinging with modesty long gone.

Carter held out his hands for Brian to remove his sparring gloves. “If last night taught me one thing, it’s that we don’t get taken; we take.” Keeping the _we_ to a distinct enclave of their two as the first glove dropped to the concrete. “You listen to what they like and I’ll keep them playing or just sell ‘em the shit that they think they need. I’ll take that money, grow it, return it and get even more of their money.”

Brian tossed the second glove as Carter anchored his hand to the back of Brian’s neck and then dropped Brian’s left hand on the true source of Carter’s ego.

Brian continued to hold Carter steady. “So a shell game. That’s illegal.” He muttered as his hand began a slow rub of the damp fabric.

Carter worked the bruise again with his tongue. “Nothing’s ever illegal until you get caught.” He rolled his hips into Brian’s palm.

“You don’t wanna get caught but you like the attention.” A sprinkling of ADHD helped Brian to track the myriad of demands that Carter was making of him. “You wanna be Scarface noticeable or just another rich dick noticeable?” Appropriately queried as Brian reached into the shorts to stroke Carter earnestly.

Now Carter kissed Brian languidly in a cadence of sweet until he worried the bruise against, now a delicious shade of crimson. “Keep talking about noticeable things and I’ll have to show you.” His dick was already noticeable enough. Rubbing up against Brian’s hip, Carter growled, “You want attention just as much as me, O’Conner and I’ll be happy to give you all that you’ll ever need.”

* * *

Watching the other acts perform placed you in the familiar seat of the spectator cum coach who could articulate the ins and outs of a routine. Most of the Fox Hole’s performers were decent enough but lacking in that spark of organic talent that made the moves an extension of one’s self.

One or two had it.

O’Conner’s brother had it. And wasn’t that just a head tilt-worthy discovery?

You wondered how many times Brian and his _brutha_ have been on the receiving end of an ebony and ivory joke. You’ve gone through at least five since sitting here.

But watching a foursome work the floor reminded you of those bump-n-goes where Brian exerted minimal effort to get you into one of Gallow’s gaudy privacy rooms. Not that you needed real privacy as you kept it classy: read the trades or gossip rags while Brian nursed one of those godawful energy drinks and slowly worked through a pile of curly fries that you ultimately taste tested for yourself as motivation for Brian to eat more and faster.

Through observation and castoff recollections, you’d learned how to apply an unorthodox array of stick and carrot to get Brian moving how you wanted him.  

Just like now…

Your thoughts kept brushing against the barbwire of restricted territory. No how matter how much pain was inflicted as you thought about it, you circled back to let more mental skin get flayed and didn’t do much to staunch the bleeding unless you wandered away, usually by the means of alcohol or beating the heavy bag until your knuckles started to crack. But the facts remained the same: Brian had certainly given it up for the grease jockey more times than you’d ever want to count. And because the taste was there, said grease jockey would keep coming back for more. Knowing how good the taste was meant that you’d have to step up your game to get Toretto out of the picture.

Like the bittersweet taste of the last swallow of velvety wine, you could savor with total satisfaction that despite all that body-body time, Toretto would never lock it down. Never get Brian’s trust to let him own a little bit of him, mark him up inside in the most primal of ways. Now you could actually smile, genuinely and toast with your peripheral enemies turned friends.

When making allies of enemies, it was best to provide distractions to feed the alliance while serving your endgame. A lesson learned from his great-grandfather who’d masterminded a little affair on Valentine’s Day in Chicago many years ago.  

You could and did smile again, knowing that the New Man ain’t touching what you could do and never would—very few men actually could. The New Man didn’t make the cut whether in whole inches or fractions or miles: he simply didn’t measure up.

Putting the mental ego-stroking aside, you returned your attention on Deckard and Owen again. “Have your mother call my mother to schedule brunch. It’s been a longtime. The Crimson Room, if I remember correctly? Your mother likes their tea. My treat as a late Mother’s Day gift, if your mother’s available.” Basically, the back-up to Plan A if Deckard and Owen didn’t take the first bite. You’re smart enough to know that sometimes you had to let the knights and princes play while the queens ran the table. Even if your mother didn’t agree with the plan of action, she’d still support the campaign.

The waning of the music rolled into the murky mutterings of the crowd appeased like a single organism but far from satiated. Count Deckard and Owen in that number as they separately tracked members of the performance. Their gazes aligning once they’ve snared their targets for further investigation, exchanging small grins, secretive to all but brothers and businessmen.

Their scrutiny would’ve made lesser man sweat, instead you marinated under the heat of their attention and grew bored because it wasn’t the attention that you desired.

“To be continued.” Owen offered before rising to depart after a cute dancer who went by the stage name of Orange Julius strolled past, leaving you alone with Deckard who under no circumstances should ever be underestimated.

“Color me impressed,” Said Deckard tipping his half-drained glass of Guinness to salute your proposition. “Maybe this won’t be a one-time thing. Put some thought into our boys and your club. Pretty and casinos are the original bread and circuses.”

Not likely if you got what you wanted. And all of that restraint you’d previously showed was exhausted, leading to the return of some of your basic qualities.

You returned the toast with a small tilt of your glass. “Perhaps, we can do more business later, Guv’na. For now, we should finish what we’ve started.” Then sat back to watch the slight blow past.

The flinty stare lobbed at you was… _cute_. Didn’t make your top ten, even if the man behind it could dismantle you without much effort, if rumors were true, but you’d seen better and worse. “Quite.” Deckard pursed his lips into a thin line and increased the wattage of his incendiary glare until he too stood up, hefted his pint then went in search of his brother or his target or possibly one in the same.

If the Shaws wanted to believe that Brian was a pretty piece that left you high and dry to frolic in an airhead paradise, then that was their mistake and still to your benefit. Brian could be sweet in all the right ways; trip the wrong mine, and on a dime, he’d show you the coldest motherfucker alive. Another reason that you could still want him this much after the dagger he left in your chest.

After you’d given Brian your trust, you gave him a razor and let him run free over your throat, giving you the best shave of your life. Of course later on, you gave him the head of his life, so you were even.

Mistakes on loop, like the vid on your cell could keep you occupied from this lifetime to the next, almost too innumerable to count. There had always been business and everything else. You messed up when Brian became _business_ and _everything else_.

Brian made you love him without even trying. Made you believe in the infinite lust of love. Drink it straight up like good Jack.

If Aristotle was right about love being a single soul in two bodies, then you were living—no, existing as this half-alive thing, driven by a hunger that could only be nourished by full restoration.

You were trapped in a cycle: _Lust. Fuck. Hate. Love._  Rinse and Repeat.

Shit, you’ve always had trouble with four-letter words.

* * *

Carter would always remember how Brian played cool when insulted. Hadn’t jumped at the bait of being called Carter’s whore by a patron who was too stupid to know when to stop even when he was already twenty grand behind.

Brian walked it off with the watery smile of expectantly bruised feelings as the hoarse, bawdy laughter of the drunk gambler followed, howling about finding new tricks to treat.

Later, Brian tossed Carter the keys to the sorry SOB’s Jag. “We’ve upgraded from _tricking_ in the official whoring dictionary. Now, we say _trapping_.” Carter was proud of Brian for boosting the drunk’s Jag to pay off the debt and tip the House extra.

“Trapping, uh? Makes sense because I look at you and see just about every goddamn trap imaginable.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.” Laughing as Carter jangled the keys playfully.

“You know me so well, baby.” Carter smirked as he pulled Brian down for a kiss and a tip of his own.

* * *

It hurt when Brian left. Worse than anything, because you were partners.

You had a future.

So, to say that you were salty was like saying that a double shot from the Great Salt Lake rimmed with Dead Sea salt was only a _little_ bitter. But you’d keep pouring in the salt, corroding your insides until they were just as caustic as the rest of you.

Eventually, you could retreat to a healthier place once you had your daily fill of bitterness. A better place being the memory of how you’d surprised Brian when he’d turned twenty-one. Had waited until Brian had showered off the hoodrat stink and had gotten work ready in one of the baby blue oxfords that was tailored tastefully too snug across the chest and trousers tapered at the hips to provide sufficient distraction to anyone watching, yourself included.

The first surprise being that you knew it was Brian’s birthday since Brian kept secrets tighter than the Mona Lisa’s smile. Even if you hadn’t done your research you might have known just by tasting the buttercream frosting on his bottom lip.  

The second surprise was a promise to watch him race once he fixed up the piece of shit Eclipse you bought, mainly as something for Brian to do at your place instead of wandering back to the other side of town. Just another way to keep him around since tying people to beds was frowned upon. You refused to see the irony in hating that car with a fiery passion and then having to be grateful for it and Brian’s skill behind its wheel when Brian used it to take a double or nothing bet to win the House back after Braga legitimately cleaned out Vici’s bank.

The third was sharing a Cuban cigar that carried the flavors of humidified tobacco and political strife.

The fourth surprise was getting him drunk on the creamiest of twenty-one thousand dollar champagnes at the top of the Griffith Observatory, uttering Spanish poetry into Brian’s nape while watching the lights glimmer across the City of Angels.

The final surprise came in the form of a platinum Patek Phillippe with an original inscription on it back: _To: Barstow Ken. From: The Asshole._ It was more than a showpiece to support the image of the well-kept lover; it was an investment—something to post or pawn if Brian’s obligations in the hood needed bail money.

Karma did work in mysterious ways as Brian’s birthday offered you the sweetest of party favors. Thus ended the story of how the video came to be and a half-dozen charges were skillfully evaded.

You felt like you reached rock bottom, the most pathetic when you were shut up in your office jerking it to the video you’d made. The run of views you’d done could qualify you to be a cinematographer. You knew every sigh, every chuckle, every angle of action and all points that were missed by the camera but preserved by memory. Doubted that Brian was this adventurous anymore. Doubted that Toretto rolled over for him either.

You could just tell that Brian had been keeping his nose clean: not rolling on anything or maybe just smoking a little something on the side, maybe not if the ankle biter thing was true. You’d been jealous at first when you learned about the new additions in Brian’s life. It would’ve sucked ass if Brian had gotten over you that fast. You felt better that Brian’s dad was just a deadbeat. A potent one, but a deadbeat nonetheless.

That heightened sense of betrayal that had last ed for approximately five days died down to wisps of relief. Relief that Brian hadn’t been so shockingly disloyal. For you, there was no benefit to being disloyal. Disloyalty required too much energy that was better applied to other pursuits, especially if the aim was to get rich before you became old and tired. Brian shed blood for him which had no equal in sincerity. An act that cemented his loyalty in perpetuity.  

You’ve learned through fist-pounding trials and bloodier errors that loyalty was easy. Deception was hard and very few were actually good at it. You understood that Brian’s fucked up childhood of bouncing between foster homes and gaining and losing siblings like stocks on the NASDAQ bred a unique brand of loyalty and latent codependency in Brian. Maybe you’d send Daddy O’Conner a fruit basket full of cigarettes for all of his hard work. You wouldn’t be here without him. Yet, loyalty remained part of Brian’s core, making his abandonment unforgivable.

Cutting through the maudlin shit would clear your head. Tonight, you were just drinking. No bumps of coke or anything else. You needed to be focused. Brian acted wild, just didn’t roll that way—or at least he hadn’t before. A little kush once in a while, a hit of Molly to give his moves that ethereal edge, but he left the Coke, Perks, and Adderall to your desire to ride each end of the sensory seesaw of hedonism.

If love were a drug, then you were an addict beyond redemption, lost to the gutter and trapped in a cycle of endless cravings until you scored another hit that only Brian could give.

Your veins burned as you watched Toretto get escorted down the VIP hall with only the British hostess returning less than a minute later.

Scoping out the club, your keen sense of observation picked up on a few eyes tuned in the same direction as yours. _Interesting_. You might have to reach out to a few contacts. Looking at one face in particular who sported a sharp, white grin bigger than the Staples Center had you guessing: _Chinese, Japanese, or Korean, maybe?_

You wondered if Mr. Happy knew Victor Tran? Mr. Tran stopped by the club every couple of weeks when he needed a date night with the mistress. But Mr. Happy did look familiar just like the only member of Mr. Tran’s entourage who stayed on your radar: the nephew.

What was his name?   _Lee, Lex, Larry, Lance_. Didn't he run with the motorcycle and tuner circles? If you were right, then you would have to buy him a drink, and maybe, catch up a little.

After another hour that had seen you separated from another bill in tips and succumbing to the aroma of the sweet and sour chicken, you were finally given an opening. You and Lance, respectively, had continued to monitor Toretto who hadn’t noticed the eyes on him yet, or was just playing cool by not reacting. But now, he was doing you a solid by dropping the pool cue and heading off in the direction of the can.

You hugged the shadows of the room purposefully, swallowing the last of your Scotch then expertly slotting the glass onto a waitress’s moving tray before you hooked left to slip past the double-occupied DJ booth and into the dark hall that promised exquisite privacy for a price.

You engaged the button on your waistcoat to close it, a final touch in sealing your armor. You propped your foot on the wall and folded your arms as you breathed into the dark as you waited for your paths to enter tandem orbit.

No clock needed to remind you that now was the time to step up.

And you were ready, starving even. A man didn’t know he was starving until he was introduced to food. Just call you Phineus, because you’ve been searching around in the dark for food, starving until O’Conner dropped into your life.

The house lights coming up was the checkered flag for you to engage.

The line between pleasure and pain had never been as close as when watching Brian work. Bewitching. Beguiling. Be spelled. Just like at the beginning, you were in awe of watching him work--slipping in and out of being who others wanted him to be; all the while being played until all the notes were spent and sour. How amused you'd been watching him work until it was you that was left alone and jonesing too hard to fight back. 

The audience showed their appreciation, now just as enthralled as you once were by the illusion.

Bewildered as Brian wove the fantasy of the boy at home, of the boy who waited, the partner who wanted and gave everything in return. These men could only fantasize. You once occupied the spaces that he moved his body around and through. Once you knew his skin better than your own.

Brian existed in a mental space associated with too many four-letter words and not enough time to explore each one.

While these poor suckers imagined what they would do with six feet and change of a genetic jackpot, you just spooled up memory instead:

You remembered your office as you leaned him against the windows overlooking the casino floor, the red and blue lights from the slots and poker machines skating patriotically across Brian’s features as you jerked him through the obscenely expensive wool of the Italian-tailored trousers until they were as ruined as he was as you peppered a barrage of complements into his neck.

You remembered being enthralled by the mechanics of his muscles as he gripped the heavy bag’s chain on the condo’s pool deck, clawing at it while you thrust up into him, making him ride you crushed between you, the bag, and the unstoppable force of gravity with his legs braided around your middle so tightly that you had bruises from your ribs to hips the next morning.

You remembered Vegas and fucking at the top of the world with eight million reasons to never stop, eight million ways to spell love, and eight million bills quilting the bed as you fought through the cramping in your thighs and burned through the exhaustible reserve of adrenaline to realize that ten inches or not, you were still way more fucked than Brian would ever be and unloaded with Brian’s hands circling your face and love on your lips and a couple of hundred bills ruined by the mess as the sun rose over the mountains to end the longest night of your life.

No man was an island and he had made you want to be a pair and partnered. You remembered one of those nights when he was done working the room, gathering the secrets and intentions, and serving them up to you so that you could keep your guests happy and playing the games that made you richer while he kept the beat with the metronome of his smile.

To remember was to reap the whirlwind that was Brian O’Conner who had just entered the lit end of the hall.  

* * *

Being in bed, not for the first time or the last time, allowed Carter to observe Brian, analyze him like a piece of art until Brian rolled over and asked bluntly, “What?”

Carter traced the slope of Brian’s nose. “You’re a peacock.” Carter stated ambiguously, still focused on tracing the lines of Brian’s features.

Brian snorted like one of Carter’s bumps had gone the wrong way. “Show me your math on that one. At last check, I wasn’t the one that made preening and strutting into a daily requirement.”

Carter gave him a look that was marginally insulting with a mumble or two about luck related to Brian’s cuteness, then started to clarify his statement,  “Let me explain for the rest of the class: anyone with an eye and half a brain can immediately discern that you’re beautiful. But anyone who spends time watching you can see that beyond the pretty face, you’re carrying a ton of shit behind you that no one else would envy. So much shit that you can’t take it off when you want to, but the fact remains that you’re beautiful, and you’ll continue to pull your trail of heavy shit behind you and no one will notice because you’re so goddamn pretty. And somehow even the shit that follows you will still be worth looking at, too.”

Brian’s silence indicated that Carter had gone too deep in a non-pleasurable sense. If they were building something real on a bedrock of youth and recklessness then Carter filling in the cracks with the sediment of introspection was a no-go. They should’ve been praising the Gods of Twenty-Something Indiscretions and Hindsight to celebrate that Brian was no longer a pawn in anyone’s system nor was Carter just a name without the brain and balls to back it up.

Because, shit, Carter always had had the balls.  

Carter slid down Brian’s chest to plant a trail of searing kisses down the center, marching them out until they covered the perimeter of Brian’s heart. “Get mad at the things that are untrue. Don’t fight the true things, just the unimaginative ones.” Carter dropped down to take claim of a nipple to keep Brian from saying anything he might later regret.

* * *

By all accounts, including your found self-awareness, you’re a filthy gentleman: a scoundrel, to be precise. Introspection became your reward after the break-up; an unsolicited settlement that carried a weighty bitterness when swallowed and an ending of hot regret when released.

Thank the Patron Saint of Fucked-Up Childhoods and Abandonment Issues for testing and molding Brian so perfectly. With your possessive streak—that arrested developmental milestone that never quite took ahold of you to share, the two of you were a perfect pair. Brian intrinsically needed to be wanted—to have a place that he could call his own and the certainty that the connection was mutual, and you had to want him with the single-minded intensity of pathological hunger, coupled with a reflexive desire to brand _mine, mine, mine_ across his skin.

In your time together, you became an expert in the sociological experiment that was Brian O’Conner. Knew most of his tics: like staying busy—dancing, fighting, working on a car because he couldn’t keep still. A byproduct of being everyone’s cast off; he was compelled to make himself useful before it was too late and he got dropped again.

Now that you’ve finally collided with you, it was a challenge to stop staring at him and instead use your words to make an opening salvo.

Finally, you began with the pettiest of non-entities in the course of your relationship. “You stopped following me on the Gram.” Said bluntly and too matter of fact to not have real emotions tied to that action. A mico-reason to be in your feelings at the moment.  “That your choice or did you do that sooth the savage beast in your bed? Either way, it’s kinda low.” And petty which was your corner of the market. Conjugating pettiness beyond a simple adjective into a verb and noun required the dexterity of a linguist resurrecting a dead language and the pure vindictiveness of a bitter ex.

Brian’s eyebrows were his tell: notching in proportion to his anger. You calculated the arching to be approximately thirty percent, and kept the internal crowing to a minimum but licked your lips in a languid slide as a mark of satisfaction.

Brian squared his shoulders in a perfect line for a fight. “One hundred percent my idea. I decided it was time to bury the past and finally let it stay that way. Someone told me that skeletons in the closet always find a way to trip you or trap you. I was just acting on the good advice.”

The pretty bastard would use your words against you. The optimist that saw the glass suddenly full of three-hundred dollar Cognac sipped in appreciation, because Brian was still thinking about you and the things that the two of you had done.

* * *

Even in the dark, it was obvious that Brian was white-knuckling the wheel. “I’m done!” He yelled as he slammed his fist into the dash. “I do crazy shit for fun, but I draw the line at _insane_. That was-was absolutely crazy.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.” Carter picked stray kernels of sand from beneath his fingernails and didn’t tense as he blew away the dried flakes of blood.

Brian turned wide, furious blue eyes on him. “Dramatic? That shit you just pulled would’ve ended only one way if I hadn’t stepped up. It was with you dead.”

Now free of sand and as much blood as he could find, Carter turned to Brian, snapping low, “It didn’t and you should concentrate on not completing what Braga tried to start by crashing my fucking car.”

This was the closest Carter had ever seen of Brian coming apart—losing his cool, and as much as Brian being vulnerable and needy got him hard, now was simply not the time to see anything other than Ice Cold Bullitt. “Stop the car.” Carter demanded.

He thought Brian was going to ignore him until the Escalade slowed down to ease onto the narrow dusty shoulder. The dash lights cast them in a sickly glow but didn’t disguise the sheen of tears in Brian’s eyes. If Carter was proud of what Brian had done, Brian appeared doomed from inside and out.

Carter reached out with a steady hand, unafraid that Brian would turn against him like a wounded animal, to draw Brian close, nearly a few inches shy of nose to nose.  "It’s good. You're good. We're good." Carter promised, then turned Brian’s head to see the bag of cash in the backseat. “You’ve made everything possible. Fuck, everything that matters, anyway.” Kissing with puppy dog sweetness, Carter felt the tremors rolling under Brian’s skin, thankful that the tremors had been absent when Braga and Fenix had him on his knees in the cold desert dirt.

Brian angled away from the bag to face Carter. “That money is dirty.” But theirs by might and right since Brian had been smart enough to find Carter after Braga and Fenix had gotten the jump on him as he was heading to Vici.   

Carter stroked Brian’s soft wavy curls that had gone inky under the night sky. Admiring how they yielded unlike his own that were tensely rebellious, so much that he always kept his hair to a neat crop.

Carter spoke softly as he raked through Brian’s hair. “Money is supposed to be dirty. We need to make it filthy.” He thumbed the perfect lines of Brian’s jaw. “Now drive us to Vegas, because we need to party, mostly because we need to be seen. And you need to eat something with grease. Nothing slows down the heart more than crap to clog the arteries.” Earning a smile since whatever Brian ordered, Carter was sure to eat half of anyway. “Dead, buried, and gone. We have no skeletons to trip us. You remember that you saved my life and those skeletons will never trap you. The past is dead.”

If he’d been in lust before; now, the heat blooming in Carter’s chest was certainly love, stinking of gunpowder, sweat, and blood, sealed with the covenant made when Brian had damned himself for Carter.

In the dark, Carter grinned as he basked in the dark knowledge that Brian would undoubtedly do it again if he had to.

* * *

Now that you had Brian’s attention again, it took a great force of will to keep you from latching on: digging your nails in deep like old times, and getting locked into the throes of a magnetic stare. If instinct told you to pull Brian in, then logic said to push him until he had nowhere else to go but back to you.

Leaning against the wall forced Brian to look at your eyes that burned like the hottest coals around a narrow sea of blue, just enough for him to see that this moment was exclusively between him and unadulterated you. Let him smell the sandalwood with spicy accents of frankincense that used to coat his skin from proximity. Let the sparkling patina of your platinum Patek Phillippe that was identical to the one that you’d given him remind him of the flash and flicker of different times. 

His eyes were drawn to your hands, and you see the shadow of relief when he realized that they were empty. You’ll remain aware that Brian watched your hands the entire time so that he wouldn’t be fooled by another Trojan horse, or a Greek, make that an Argentinian-Italian American bearing gifts.

This close to Brian made it obvious that like the best types of liquor, Brian only got better with age. You’d be unrepentantly damned if you didn’t acknowledge how much you wanted a taste of him.

So you remarked, “Shit must’ve really gone south since the last time I saw you...” The morning Brian ghosted from your life and literally your bed because he couldn’t handle what you were offering. “—If you’re worried about skeletons from the past clawing at you. I don’t have a past, just interrupted segments. But I could help you if you want. Help you put that shit to rest if you’d come around again.”

Brian cut a teasing smile in reply to your offer. “I can handle it.” Brian leaned in.  “I always could.” Then he started drifting away.

“Right.” You agreed, toeing carefully since you’d dropped the anvil of the bodies. Though those bodies would never be a real-life issue, just a mental one. You’d made sure there wasn’t anything to bury. All done without your trusty blowtorch. “There are no bodies on my end, if that’s what’s got you knotted up and sliding into the Ice Queen tactics. I took care of those. End. Past. Done. But we still have loose ends and I never got an answer to my question.”

Brian didn’t take his eyes off you as he slotted up against the wall again, putting his naked back against the surface as he began to relent under the subtle force of your emotional battering ram.

“If you’re still waiting for an answer--” Brian stopped and in his eyes was a sickening shade of pity. “Then you never understood me to begin with. You’re overthinking this one. The answer’s right here and I’m not gonna repeat it even if you annoy the shit outta me by asking.” First, he licked his lips, made them glossy then shine through the moody dark and later unleashed a raspy chuckle. “To make sure you understand, you overplayed your hand, Carter. There was nowhere else to go, except leave the table.” _Or you_ , Brian didn’t say.

And if your throat grew dry then it was your fault for drinking so much. It had nothing to do with the stealthy dismissal. “You always were a stubborn little shit, Riverside Ken.”

“Barstow Ken, if you’re trying to insult me correctly.” Brian’s grin snaked its way between your warring desires to pop him in the mouth and kiss him until he was starving for breath. He flashed you some tongue when he replied, “We all have to be good at something, so why not be the best at being a stubborn shit.”

Then Brian released a heavy sigh that you only got after trying and failing to pry open those emotional vaults with a crowbar forged out of pure persistence and selfishness. “No more, okay, Carter. The calls, the texts, all the other shit…It stops now.”

You didn’t come here to just rollover and both of you knew that. “Or what?” You shot back, challenging Brian to do what he did best: not back down. You expected the recoil, welcomed it, if it meant that you had Brian’s attention. “Tell me about the things you’d do--” You blatantly stared at Brian’s mouth. “—to me.”

Brian’s brows remained at the horizon of his brow, a cool zero degrees of inclination and cold, and Brian stared back. “I know what you can do—you gave me an education in imagination, after all, but you should remember what I can do, too. And I really don’t want to do it again.”  The last said close enough to your lips to caress them like the final kiss you were still owed. “You shouldn’t want me anymore. You don’t need me anymore either.”

You curled your hand around the corners of Brian’s jaw, a position that had once invited your slow explorations of lips with tongue, now just a temporary hold on what once was. “Don’t get it twisted, O’Conner, you needed me just as much.” Retorted as a final blow.

“Go home, Carter, or go back to the Vinci.” Brian said as he walked backwards towards the dressing room. “It’s time to fold ‘em, cuz you’re not winning. And don’t even start with the tricks either-- just save the Spanish poetry for your next one.”

If Brian had grown immune to the Iberian prose, then you’d go for the original tongue of cunning linguists. “How about Italian instead? You know I’m flexible. My fingers and tongue still are.”

Brian flipped you off until he became a dark silhouette at the end of the hall. “I’ve gotta get back to work.” Brian said with a half-crooked smile then disappeared behind the dressing room door.

Watching him walk away only made your resolve burn brighter. Like the butane torch you kept in your office, your determination glowed blue until it burned white with the pure sincerity to have Brian again. Be the alpha and omega until there was no more breath to give.

You slid your hand into your breast pocket and pulled it out as you stepped into the purple light made from the exit’s red and the club’s strobes of blue. The ring pivoted between your fingers, exposing the platinum interior to light, proving itself flawless in spite of Carter’s worrying its surface almost daily. The only mark on the ring was a purposeful one: an engraving of a peacock in the inner façade. Realism said that you hadn’t commissioned your doom when you ordered the engraving into the ring’s design.

Just a coincidence.

You had wanted honesty.

That was the only promise Brian ever broke. The one thing he refused to give.

* * *

Brian was a lot heavier than he looked. That was the problem with deadweight. Carter had to shoulder it as a result of no longer being able to keep them from approaching an inevitable conclusion. This was how he forced Brian to stop stalling which involved leaving behind Vinci and Gallows 24 for the isolated quiet of Catalina.

Regret might haunt him until morning or just the length of time that it took for Brian to come around.

 In the meantime, Carter placed the small box beside Brian’s head on the pillow.

He refused to offer up some big speech which would seem gauche after blood and bullets. Instead, Carter uttered what he knew was true: “You’re the type of boy that wants to be wild in the streets and play house behind closed doors.” Carter respected that. “Open that when you’re ready.” Carter said while keeping his hands far from the box like touching it would burn through all his layers and bore through him to the bone.

Maybe he’d gone too far when he’d given Brian that drink, because Brian’s eyes were at half-mast and obviously distant. But Brian had been stubborn as a horse—ducking and dodging Carter every time Carter tried to find him at Gallows and completely absent from Vici; so wasn’t it only fair that Carter bring the water—spiked and all—to the stubborn horse and make him drink?

When Brian was no longer rolling in the depths of pharmacological inebriation, then they’d have a talk, and only one word was acceptable from Brian’s end. And the word was _yes_.

* * *

They were far from over.

Watching Brian drive his Barrio Baddass’s gas guzzler out of the Fox Hole’s lot into the wet L.A. night shouldn’t have bothered you. But it did. Unfortunately, you always seemed to be reminded that you were human at the worst times.

You slammed your fist against the Agera’s wheel. Once. Twice. Until they were red and stinging unlike when you rolled them in tape. But you didn’t stop; just kept at it—again and again until you imagined it was the GQ Jailbird’s face.

You hated Brian so fucking much for making you feel like this. For making you want to beg. For making you miss his smell and the space he occupied in your bed. For making you feel absolutely weak and rudderless without him boosting you up like a cross breeze. For wanting to just get down on your knees and take him in until your throat ached and your lips swelled.

That was why you hated him so fucking much.

A cooler head would steer you back home to work on more calluses, developed after trying to recreate the sensations of those lovely pictures of your mouth on Brian’s neck, your hands wandering low, and plenty with enough skin to give you a new reputation, if you wanted it, that was, but definitely enough to make Brian remember you and, most importantly, _them_.

You start a text while musing to yourself, “ _El que quiera pescado que se moje el culo_.” And decide to wait until morning to let your bomb drop. **“** _Donde hay gana, hay maña_.”

If you were a real fucking prick, possibly The Real AssholeTM that you swaggered around presenting to the world—well, you would show Brian’s vis-a-vis new jump off-why you never tried to take on the House.

Simply put: the house always won, and you were too mad to lose.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, the rat from 2F2F got a shout-out and a place in this fic. His name is Mickey and Carter loves him very much.  
> 2\. The origin of the watch is revealed.  
> 3\. Carter and Vince would probably have an epic insult competition.  
> 4\. Carter isn't just a self-made gangster. He carries a genuine legacy that stretches back to the turn of the 20th Century.  
> 5\. Vinci borrowed from True Detective Season 2.  
> 6\. Vici because Carter would fanboy Julius Caesar.  
> 7\. Carter is obsessed with certain assets.  
> 8\. References to 2F2F _and_ Fast and Furious _micro-plots scattered throughout._
> 
> Translations:  
>  _El que quiera pescado que se moje el culo_ : He who wants to fish gets his butt wet (If you want it do right, do it yourself.).  
>  _Donde hay gana, hay maña_. : Where there's desire, there's ability (If you want it, you'll do it.).

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Set during Chapter 5.


End file.
